


Growing up, growing in

by Muspell



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Underage Sex, but not really, underage fondling most like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell
Summary: After making his first friend at Barcelona, Yuri is left with more questions than answers. Is all of what he feels... normal amongst friends? Should he even hesitate that much at the very idea of having him at his home for his birthday?All he knows is that he can't wait for it to come, and find out what is all of this that Otabek Altin unleashes inside of him.





	1. Chapter 1

I mean, it never have happened before. Well, let’s be serious I didn’t really know how to do this. now: has it happened to anyone else? I mean… who the hell gets on a motorbike with practically a stranger and ends up all “buddy-buddy” with them? I didn’t even know what that reference MEANT. I’ve barely met the guy some days ago, and we haven’t talked since he got on that plane back to Almaty the day after the Gala. I could text him though…. That’s why we exchanged contact info at the airport after all, right? We haven’t needed it before since he knew where I was staying: he walked me right up to my room that first night at Barcelona. Just like friends do, right?

 

_ I’ve told him then about uploading the picture we took together earlier that day with the sun setting behind us on Instagram, just to see his reaction; I knew he wasn’t really into social media but he still has a account, I have seen it around looking for news on the competition.  _

_ “Do what you want with it: I barely log in anyway.” Silence. I was a bit too excited still, everything was so newI felt like a child about to hop around out of joy and he knew it, I could see it in the way he looked at me. The smile was another subject though: watching him looking down on me felt safe; I wondered when was the last time he smiled like that for someone else. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, still leaning on my room’s door, thinking of saying goodbye but without really wanting to; I haven’t feeling this comfortable around people in a while, it’s refreshing. But then, I shouldn’t forget the circumstances in which we’ve met. “We should call it a day: there’s a big day ahead of us tomorrow.” said Otabek, snapping me out of my daydreaming. What was I even thinking about? Did I just zoned out for a second? His smile is the only thing on my mind right now. “We’ll see each other tomorrow, right? I’ll be cheering for you”. II tried to play cool and snap some challenge at him since I’ve never even seen him skate but all that come out of my mouth is “I’ll be watching you too!!” a bit way too cheerful for my taste. The kazakh chuckled. What the hell, man? Control yourself! He said good night and I didn’t dare say it back, just in case I sounded like a damn fangirl again, so I just nodded at him and waited for him to disappear into the corridor to run into my room and slam the door shut. My phone ringed: Otabek-Altin liked a photo on Instagram. You barely log in, ha? _ __  
  
I don’t even know if I should text him; it’s already past dinner time around here and I have absolutely no idea what’s the time difference between Almaty and St. Petersburg. I mean, I guess I could text him anyways: friends do that, right? Yuuko texts me almost everyday with news of the kids, and Mila sends me stupid shit from the internet from time to time or just blatantly tries to piss me off, but I KNOW them already. I know when I’m being a nuisance. But him? I have absolutely no idea how much attention he pays to his phone. What if…?

My phone rings. A text from him.  **“I’m home. How are you?”** . I could just say fine, right? That’s polite and to the point, isn’t it? It’s all so much more difficult when he’s not around, his smile seems to call me down. That is weird, though, why would it…? Anje comes to rub on my arm trying to avoid the lumps of balled up pieces of clothing all over the bed. Well, that’s a perfectly good way to say “fine”, is it? I decide to text him a photo.

**“Сүйкімді”** he texts back after I send him a picture of the black and white furball now trying to make some room under my arm to nap. 

**“What does that mean?”** Damn Kazakh boy and his fucking mother tongue.

**“It means Cute.”** Oh. so, he likes cats. I didn’t even ask him. To be honest, I don’t him I asked him much, I just had so much to say to someone, and he suddenly shows up…. 

**“Is that your bed? You’re a mess.”** , he text back.  Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart? I know he doesn’t talk much but these carefully measured texts are a fucking joke. Is he gonna be like this every time?

**“Thank you for the heads up (fuck you emoji)”.**

**“Сүйкімді.”**

**“Fuck you”.**

 

Hey, this is not so hard. I think I can do this more often. If only my chest wouldn’t feel like it’s gonna bust open at any minute every time I think of texting him back. I can hear Lila knocking at the door already, about to take it down, nagging me for not being asleep. Bitch, how can I sleep when you’re banging on my door like that? Meh, I should just try and get some rest; the Grand Prix final is over but there’s still much more work to do. I wonder if I should, just… It’s the polite thing to do, right?

 

**“Goodnight, Otabek”**

**“Call me Beka. Goodnight, Yuri”**

 

There’s that pressure in my chest again, I turn around to cuddle with Anje and she just adjusts her position to let me pet her belly while she’s sleeping. She’s incredibly fierce around other people, but it’s just because they don’t know her like I do. I find myself saying goodnight to my phone without realizing it. Damn it, I need some sleep.

 

* * *

 

I wake up to that charming familiar sound of “If you don’t get up right this instant I’ll come get you, young man!” while banging on the door. Oh, the peace and fucking quiet in this house... I get and barely get to wash up and get dressed before slamming the door open to make her shut up. He still bitches about lost sleep hours, and so much lost glued to a phone screen and…. Right. I left it at the bed, so I take it swiftly and put it in my pocket before going out; if I even dare a glance at it she’s gonna start again, so let’s best not for now. 

And it sits there all morning, while I go through my usual practice: at every correction Lilia makes my body feels more stiff than before, I’m just not in my best mental state today. She calls for a break and asks me to cool down; she notices I’m tense. Fuck, I can barely follow her without having my mind wander around in the warm weird feeling of yesterday’s conversation…. Weird. It was just a fucking two minute text exchange: I seriously need to cool down. But it won’t happen like this, not with THAT DAMN NOSY BITCH with MY phone on her hand.

“Yuuuuu-ri” says Mila, almost singing, “What a beautiful good morning text they’re sending you. Who’s the lucky one?”

“Give that shit back,  баба . What do you care?” I snatch my phone from her hand just to notice the conversation from last night. There was a picture sent way early in the morning with the caption  **“good morning”** . It was a sunrise at the top of some stone steps and there was a variety of green splashed with a thousand colors here and there, all slightly darkened with the oranges and yellows of the sky. I have to give her credit: it is beautiful, damn your photographic skills, Altin. I try to answer without her watching over my shoulder.

**“Great pic. Where were you? And why do you text so early?”** I don’t really expect him to answer that fast; I mean, I didn’t even check the time differences between our cities and I have no idea what’s his schedule. He could be, he must be training as well. Right?

**“First president’s park. Just a couple of kilometers away from home. I wasn’t expecting to wake you up. Did I?”** Shit. Did I just make him feel guilty? I can’t tell if he’s not looking at me; I can’t guess his tone through texting. I feel a couple of eyes almost burning through my skull, I don’t know whether to answer him or take care of her first. 

**“Nah, if I were to wake up from every notification I’d never sleep for more than five minutes.”** A finger brushes on my cheek.

“Oh, take a look at that, is my little Китти all blushed?” I move away from her in disgust, or at least that’s what I think it is. I barely noticed the heat rising up to my face when he actually answered despite whatever it is he was doing. What is he doing, though? I barely know nothing from the guy, for some reason every time I think of him and all the thing I don’t know I remember the way he was looking at me back at the hotel, his eyes sparkling somehow, lips sealed in a smile that seemed inviting to…. Get a hold of yourself, man; you can’t keep doing this. At this point I must be red up to the tip of my ears by the way Mila is chuckling besides me and Lilia doesn’t let me practice with my hair loose -she says it hides me and I’m supposed to show myself, magnificent, on the rink- so I have no way of hiding it. I excuse myself and get out, phone in hand, just so the chill air from outside helps me cool down a bit. 

**“What are you doing?”** It’s nearly midday, and I have around still some time to grab a bite somewhere and try to focus on the afternoon. He answers only with a photo: a table with ice skates guards, a towel and a water bottle and the empty ice rink on the background. So he’s practicing, hu? Did he stop just to answer me?

**“What are you up to? Aren’t you supposed to be on the ice?”** Tch. Who the hell does he thinks he is?

**“Lunch time. Aren’t you?”**

**“Ah, right. Three hours less.”** OH. So that’s the hour difference. **“I’m skating on my own, I used your text as an excuse to take a break”**

**“You haven’t yet?”**

**“Now I have.”** Haha. Idiot. I can hear them approaching now, and Mila is gonna say something, I’m sure. Damn her and her salty comebacks. 

**“I’m going to lunch with my rinkmates.”** Why would he care about THAT? 

**“OK. Take care. I’ll talk to you tonight.”** is he asking for permission?

**“Sure.”**

  
  


“Yuuuuuri, you’re smiling at you phone again? Is it the sunrise photo person? Are you gonna introduce us?” Mila is more than annoying, but specially like this, when she throws herself over me so I can’t get out of her hug.

“He’s a friend! Just leave it!” At least she hasn’t seen the flush because of the cold outside, but I’m positive if I were to fall on my face now all the snow would melt around me.

“Ohhhhhh, a he, hu?” She pokes my cheek and I bite her finger. At least that took her off of me long enough for me to get away. How did she not know that, though? She had the phone in her hand…. Oh. Right. I didn’t save his contact under his name. He’s a motorbike emoji. 

“What was the need for that? “ She says, rubbing her finger, “You should come with us around the corner if you’re THAT hungry. Unless you wanna keep smiling at your virtual boyfriend…”   
“Shut up, баба, I’m coming!”

 

* * *

 

They’re nice, I guess. Georgi talking about his new girlfriend, Mila’s mate -I can never recall her name, but I don’t think she’s noticed yet: good thing I rarely call people by their actual names- with her online schooling and all…. They’re nice, distracting. They don’t ask questions, they stay in their lane. And then, there’s that nosy bitch again.

“May I know the name?” Mila’s smile at this point looks like cheshire's, staring at me as if she had a knife hidden behind her back and was waiting for me to make a bad move. 

“The name of WHAT”. I realize that came out a little too aggressive for people to assume I don’t care what’s she’s saying; that might be a problem. I realize it might have also come a bit too loud when I look around ad see everyone on the minuscule joint STARING at me. Fair enough, “everyone” were around five people in three different tables and the guy at the bar, but still I sink in my chair and pull my hood even higher if that’s even possible, so I don’t have to feel them judging me from their seats. Everyone in the table stopped talking and are fixed on me now. Damn it, Mila.

“The name of what, Mila?” Georgi didn’t even notice, good. The girl is just figuring out what the hell is going on, I guess the bitch didn’t have the time to embarrass me about this before. 

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that Kitty here received a picture of a beautiful landscape and I just wanted to know where was it from, that’s all” Her cheeky smile irritates me to no end at this point, but if I have an outburst now I won’t be able to stop them from asking. I don’t know why I care about them asking, he’s just a friend; it’s alright to talk to friends, right? People do. So why do I feel the need to hide him from them? They’re dull, sure, but they’re not bad people; yet I don’t care about making small talk to them, but Beka calls my cat “cute” and for some reason my heart beats faster. 

“President’s Park in Almaty.” I realize my voice sound childish through the fabric of my jacket and I want to punch myself for it. Not only I can’t answer her “kitty” remark right now -I’ll just make everyone stare again-, I’m pretty much affirming her point. I thought they would distract me from texting him but all I wanna do is finish my lunch and get the hell away from there. I unblock my phone under the table; I know she’s still looking at me but she won’t say anything. She would’ve done that by now if she wanted. 

**“I need to get away; don’t like these people”** I don’t know why I keep texting him, he must be busy by now. Five minutes pass and there’s no response. I decide to just leave it for now. I’d better just focus on my skating: this morning sucked, so I need to ace the practice now or Lila is gonna scold me to sleep. 

Damn it. 

 

Practice wasn’t so terrible at least, but Lila wasn’t happy: dinnertime could have been less nerve wrecking. But at least it’s over now. Anje followed me from the dinner table to my bed again and the minute I throw myself on the bed, I remember his words. I’m a mess? I’m gonna have to find out what his room looks like now, it’s only fair, right? I don’t believe he’s in any way more organized that I am, he spends most of his time on the rink as well, after all. 

**“Come to Almaty, then.”** Well, his answer came a bit too late, but it’s more than welcome. Is he actually inviting me to his home? I don’t know if he lives alone, or how, or, or…. Pretty much anything about him. Fuck.

**“You want me to go to your house?”** He didn’t actually said that, he said Almaty. Fuck. I should have noticed that, I just invited myself to his house. I must sound horribly desperate. Fuck fuck fuck.

**“Not house though. I live in an apartment.”** Well, so what? That’s not what I asked. 

**“Alone?”** There it goes, needy prick again. Someone take this phone away from me. Victor might have gone all the way to Japan for a lapdance and a shitty YouTube video, but I’m not doing any better right now. Well… At least I’m talking to the guy. And I’m not heads over heels for him, either. And there’s a lot less exhibicionism as well. Could be more pathetic, I guess. 

**“Yes. I didn’t want to come back to my family home last year, I’m a bit too old for it.”** I don’t want to repeat my question, I mean… If we forget I sounded like I was about to get onto the first plane and bang on his door without so much as a warning, I’d be more that content. Then again, a new text comes in. Two, actually. Of course I just open his and let Mila’s unread.

**“One room tiny flat, but you’re always welcome.”** WOW. OK. CALM DOWN NOW. He did. He did invited me home. Well, why wouldn’t he? We’re friends, friends do that. Shit, Yuuko does it and I keep telling her no just so I can avoid the shattering earthquakes she calls her daughters. Not that I don’t like them, the audios the girls send are cute and flattering and all, but the actual girls are some piece of work. Then, what’s the problem with going to see him, after all? Calm the fuck down. 

**“Show me?”** I’m not forgetting you know my room and I don’t know yours, kiddo. If you live alone, it can’t be as impeccable as you’d think mine should be. Actually, not so much my room as my bed… luckily. The whole thing is not in any way a better sight. Probably the hag is right, and I should clean up at some point. Next message comes in and it’s a picture: it is cramped alright but (fuck me) perfectly immaculate but for the sports bag on the floor next to the couch. He doesn’t own a T.V or anything: it’s just a coffee table, a couch, a bar with two stools that separate the kitchen from the, let’s call it, living room and a bookcase hiding the bed behind it. And of course, right in front of the sofa he’s slouched in taking the picture, on what I’m gonna assume is the bathroom’s door, a full body mirror, giving him the perfect angle to take the photo while hiding almost all of his figure on the sparkle of the flash reflected on it. Well…. I’m almost concerned that he only owns books to help him pass the time; how come a guy like this doesn’t even pay attention to his Instagram? I mean… Almost no attention.

**“At least you’re not a mess”** I tried to make it sound as sharp as his text in regards of my bed was. Mission failed. Miserably. Again. 

**“If I need a mess, I can always bring you in”** haha, clever fucking bastard. 

**“How do I know you’re not gonna strangle me the third day we spend together?”** Spend together. I should have phrased that better. It sounds… weird. Close. Way too close.

**“I’d miss you too much.”** for some reason, I feel my face is about to burst into flames. The only person that ever told me that he missed me was Grandpa. And he is, well, my grandfather. It is to be expected, right? I don’t think anyone else said it, well, apart from the triplet menace, but they’re little kids, they do that, right? I can feel my heartbeat pounding on my ears, and push my face against my pillow. What can I say? “I have no idea what to do with this information, but just in case, I’ll proceed to have a mental breakdown, excuse me for a minute’”? Fuck, relax, you’re friends, friends spend time together, miss each other, it just happens. But this guy and his damn straight forward honesty. I just want to run away right now; don’t know why, I just need to run away. 

**“I’m going to bed, Beka. We’ll talk tomorrow, ok?”** I wonder how the fuck I am going to catch a break and sleep now. Damm. He doesn’t answer immediately, even though he’s read the message, so I try to soften it down. It did sound awful.  **“Text as early as you want, I’ll read as soon as I wake up.”** OK, maybe not THAT soft. I can’t seem to grip the definition of “mild” today. I better get some rest. 

**“Sure, no problem. Goodnight Yura.”** I haven’t told him to call me that. I don’t think anyone calls me that. It’s nice though. It’s definitely not “kitten”. Oh, speaking of which, I still have a message from the bitch, don’t I?

 

**“I can feel the loooooove from the other point of town, Kitty. How’s Altin doing?”** WHAT? Wait. I haven’t given him a name. At all.

**“You live like ten blocks away, you idiot.”** Damn it, I should have corrected her.  **“How did you know his name?”** Fuck, that is not correcting her!

**“The hero of Kazakhstan kidnaps the russian Fairy, the Instagram post, Almaty…. The guys at the rink might be obtuse as fuck, but I know you. You can’t get past me that easily.”** I’m about to answer her when another text from her comes in:  **“You didn’t bitch about the “love part? Curiouser and curiouser”** Who the fuck texts like that? I know I should have corrected her, I know I should. 

**“I was about to”**

**“Funny. You’re the quickest shitposter in this side of the world, and I just beat you at texting speed?”** Every phrase that I can come up with to answer is anything but pretty, certainly not clever. I just want her to get the fuck away from me. It’s just a text I didn’t send, big deal. She texts again, seeing that I wasn’t going to.  **“He seems nice. He’s cute too, fascinating, even. Anyways, just rub one out and get it out of your system: you were all over the place today.”** WHAT. SERIOUSLY. WHAT THE FUCK MILA.

**“IT’S NOT LIKE THAT AT ALL. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I AM?”**

**“ A bitchy fifteen year-old with a cute new friend. Clearly. JK, you know I don’t mean any disrespect to Altin, but you need to focus”** there’s a bit more that I need to say to her right now, but at least she DID take the fluttering silly feeling on my gut Beka seems to provoke me.  **“You know you can talk to me, right? I might be a dick, but i’m a dick with good ears”**

**“That is one hell of a mental image. Goodnight, Mila.”**

**“Sleep tight or the elephant eared flying cock is gonna get you (L). Goodnight, Kitty.”**  Gotta give it to her, I feel much more relaxed now. Also, she’s an idiot, but that does help. I finally go to sleep, but first, I have to text her one more thing. I know I won’t tell her tomorrow, so it has to be now, while it still feels safe. 

**“Also, thanks.”**

I haven’t feel this lighthearted in a while. I wonder how much it will last. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been… what, a month since we’ve met each other in Barcelona? A month talking almost everyday. A month having someone to say “good morning” and “goodnight” to. A month with, probably, much less outbursts around random people, and more snickering from Mila because “I smile at my phone way too much to be normal”. Fuck that. 

A month and I grew so accustomed to talk to him everyday that I lay in my bed after dinner and just wait for his text to come in. Always. I don’t think I have ever text him first yet; this was always the kind of dynamics we had, he sort of makes a move, I make a greater one, either because I talk too much or because I can’t handle a challenge. And him texting me about Almaty was clearly him begging me to ask to go to his house, right? Right? 

But today, his texting is different. He just says he’s had a shitty practice, his mind was elsewhere the entire day and he fell on his ass so much he almost left the bike there and call a cab to get home. Well, in different words. Apart for the cab thing. Mostly. So I tell him all about my training in a stupid fucking long audio message and every jump I tried and fail today. They weren’t many, but there were some, and it seemed to relax him a bit. I didn’t even notice when was the day when I sent the first audio to him, I was just so upset I needed to vent, to actual vent, I needed to shout at someone, and he said he was someone. So. But he didn’t send one back, he kept on writing. And he doesn’t really takes photos of himself, they’re mostly landscapes: beautiful pictures, beautiful places, of course, but… nothing of him. There’s a strange feeling on my chest, like a pressure that makes breathing harder than always when I think I haven’t seen his face or listened to his voice in a while. And tomorrow is Sunday, so I’ll have a lot of free time to text him feeling that thing. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow. I just wished I could ask him to make it shorter, but he seems just so tired I let him go to bed with a simple “goodnight”. He says it too. I can’t hear him, but he sounds odd. 

 

I woke up when the sunlight beaming through the half-closed curtains, interrupted by a pile of discarded bags and backpacks, lands directly on my face. I don’t want to get up, it must be like 8 or 9 in the morning, too fucking early for a Sunday to start, if you ask me. Well sharp needles seem to dig into my chest in no time. Damn it, Anje is awake. I love her but I need to get her claws trimmed: Lilia saw the marks and thought I was somehow trying to hurt myself. She can’t grasp the idea that sleeping with the cat means the cat actually sleeps ON you, and however the fuck she wants. 

Her insisting purring makes me sit up on the bed and unstick my eyes just enough to get my phone and start going through the notifications. Some social media bullshit, I’ll have time for that later: Pichit is on Hasetsu on visit, there’s a fuckton of new pics, fucking Instagram junkie. A new text from the former motorcycle, no name: now it’s Beka, period. He does always close his texts with a period; it makes him seem definitive with his answers when in reality he’s just a good boy who starts all his sentences in a capital letter and finishes on a period. In my neighbourhood, they’re called nerds. He laughs at that, says he doesn’t mind as long as I don’t mind hanging out on a nerd’s bike. Period. Cool badass nerd, that’s a new one, uh? He still sound off on his text though; it’s not “good morning”, it’s just

**“Hey Yuri”** He hasn’t called me that in… well… a while. I should probably ask him what’s wrong but what if it’s me? Well…. Then I should ask too, leaving things unspoken has never done any good, said Mila, and she is right. She might be a bitch, and she’s a smart one, damn her. 

**“Hey, Beka. Is everything OK?”** He’s gonna say he’s fine. People always do. I shouldn’t worry. I shouldn’t have asked. 

**“Not really”** Of course, he doesn’t lie. Not to me at least. Never has before. Straightforward blunt honesty. But watching him writing, and erasing his text, and writing again without sending anything is hardly straightforward, and frankly quite irritating.

**“What? I can see you erasing your texts. I’m not gonna bite you, you know.”** I tried to sound sympathetic. Mission failed, pathetically. At least it sounds kind of alike. 

**“You could, Ice Tiger of Russia”** hahaha fuck you. You’re not so bad you can’t make jokes then.

**“Seriously, what’s wrong?”** It takes him a bit to answer. But he writes it quickly.

**“I miss you.”** the blunt part is still there. Or it might be just the compulsory need to close every text with a period. Anyways it takes me by surprise enough that I notice he’s send a new text right after that one a few second late.  **“Do you mind if I videocall you?”** Well, I’m a disaster, he knows that, so he’s not gonna freak out when he sees my room. I open the curtains all the way and kick out the pile of luggage so I can put the laptop on the windowsill and sit in front of it.

**“Laptop is better than via cellphone. Skype away.”** I sit and I wait for him without realizing one important detail.

**“I don’t know your username”** Well, yeah, only cell number and Instagram account: we’ve never spoken on any other app or platform. I give it to him and in a minute the “add contact” window pops up: same name as the Instagram. He surely does it to not forget the accounts, he’s a neanderthal with these things. I’m sure that’s why he doesn’t like social media. 

 

The call got in after a few minutes and I can see him clearly, sitting on the floor, back against the couch and one knee up to rest his arm on it; he looks like he was getting ready to get out: hair perfectly slicked back, dark grey fitting shirt, jeans and white socks, and that mesmerizing little smirk he does… How could I forget that, from my hotel room door at Barcelona? That dark gaze and the subtle smile that seemed spreading every time I talked. He licks his lips and I just noticed the breath held on my throat and my mouth open, staring directly at the screen. Damn it, he’s just so…. So…. fuck, I was over it, I was; I thought I could do this without looking like a fucking idiot. And the I remember:

“Did I wake you up?” I haven’t even brushed my teeth, my hair’s a mess and i’m still wearing loose shorts and an over-sized white shirt with kittens on it. 

“No, no… Not you, SHE did” and I point at the culprit, happily washing herself on top of the bed, almost scratching my head in the process. “I just read your message BECAUSE I just woke up” His voice sounds low and tender, almost relieved… But then his eyes just keep on staring at the exact way I gawk at every little movement of his mouth: he brings his left hand in and brushes his lip slightly with his finger. Leaves it there in a thoughtful gesture, almost covering the sneaky smile forming.  I know he can’t possibly see what I’m looking at: The webcam is over the screen so it always look like I’m looking further down that I actually OH SHIT. 

A flustered blush builds up so rapidly that I only think of putting my knees up to hide my face with them and I hear him chuckling.

“I really missed you, Yura. I’m sorry if I worried you, I really did.”I look up from my knees enough to look at the screen. He’s still smiling, now cross legged and with both hand on his lap; he doesn’t even attempt to hide the slight blush on his cheeks. Slight, minimum, maybe I’m imagining it?

“Well, I missed you too” I wanna tell him I don’t throw out kiddy tantrums about it, but that is just mean, isn't it?

“What were you planning to do today?”

“No idea, just…. Browse around. Maybe go for a walk. Mila is on a date and I don’t really speak with anyone here so…”

“You speak with me.” that was sudden. Right. Conversations don’t have the same timing as texting; he can interrupt me now whenever he thinks I’m about to say something… unfitting. 

“Well, yeah, BUT YOU ARE ALL THE WAY OVER THERE” I say looking pointing at the screen widely so he understand exactly what I mean.

“Sure,  yes, it’s a bit of a hermit choice to stay and talk to me…”

“Nah, I will. I’d rather stay in closed doors with you all day than going out with any of them” I look away just to seem at least a bit less desperate than I feel I sounded. I look again, he’s smiling widely. 

“Good, because I was thinking the same thing” the way his eyes sparkle when he looks at me send a special warmth down my stomach… and when I look at what’s he’s watching I can see that my shorts are a bit too loose and a bit too short… I put my legs down suddenly to get up and get change without saying a word, just… I just need to get changed. I get into my walk-in closet and put on my training outfit and try to wash my face and brush my hair. The keyword in this second part is TRY. At least it doesn’t look like a bird’s nest anymore. I sit back down and notice he move the laptop -more like the coffee table- closer and is talking to Anje in Kazakh while she meows at the screen confidently.

“What is he telling you, girl?” I pet her head and she lets me a bit, only to move closer to the laptop; he laughs, he knows he just won the battle for her attention. “Well, now that you made me feel jealous because my OWN CAT loves you better, what were you saying to her?”

“Not much. That she’s pretty and really lucky to be with you…”

“That’s enough for her to not want me again, you bastard” I keep on teasing him only to see him happy, now that I can positively see him, and not just text him random shit.

“... because you give her such a good obstacle track to run on.” You know what? Scratch that. The little shit is mocking me and I’m letting him. Fuck.

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you.” I try to look mean, he looks down at me like I’m a cute puppy doing a trick. “I mean it.”

“Don’t say things you don’t know what they mean.” Is he… blushed? He looks down and runs a hand through his hair, letting his elbow rest on the couch. I just said…. OH. GOD DAMN IT.

“You know that’s not what I meant!” I’m aware I’m really flustered by now, but he’ll understand. It’s all his fault.

“Well, you did say you meant it….” he has this shitty little grin I’m sure he makes when he knows he won a battle. But I’m winning the war. Eventually. My stomach roars and I just realized I haven't eaten anything since I woke up, which was a good while ago. 

“The only reason I’m not answering that is because my stomach is roaring and I’ll have to go down to fetch breakfast…” He lifts a mug from his side so it shows on the screen.

“I should get another cup of tea, too. So, after breakfast, back here?”

“No. Don’t hang up. I’ll get whatever they have in the kitchen and be right back. Also, tea is for bland grandmas.” I’m about to get out of the door when he calls me loud enough for me to listen from across the room.

“ Yuri!” He uses the tone of a school teacher, “tea is to avoid the caffeine rush on a Sunday. Beware of coffee on free weekends or you won’t rest at all.”

“Yeah yeah mommy, let me go.” I turn my back on him so he doesn’t know the way he tries to care for me while in a completely different country and time zone makes me smile like a small kid. I close the door quietly and stay leaned on it a moment to let all the warm feeling in my stomach fade away before going down, just in case. I have no idea who is still on the building.

 

* * *

 

Yakov’s sitting on the dinner table, clutching an already cold coffee cup while reading messages on his phone: surely about Viktor’s moves on coaching and training at the same time, judging by his face. He looks up only when I’m about to take a pastry out of the plate in front of him and holds my wrist. Hard. 

“Don’t you think you should have an actual breakfast for one weekend?” I thought I could get past him this time as well, but he looks just so tired… I’ve been getting out and taking random buses to get to obscure little coffee shops on Sundays, just to get out of the house; this time, I can’t just get away without telling him where I’m going. There’s something off in the way he looks at his phone.

“Yeah, I…. I was about to. I’m just chatting with someone upstairs so I was gonna get something to bring there” I realize my voice sounds softer than usual. I know he does too.

“Are you on the phone? They might be waiting...”

“No. Skype. But yeah, I should get going.” I have been besides him since I was a kid, I know there’s something off… “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, just… Viktor and his coaching extravaganza. I never thought I’d see him this much into anything, much less only a year after he left skating for a whim, and now he goes back to it, but so incredibly changed. It’s…. Still a lot to process” He realizes I’m staring way before I could move away and waves his hand dismissively at me. “But, go, go. They’re waiting for you. Just… Don’t disappear, ok?”

“I’ll get some hot chocolate and be upstairs”

“Uh? No coffee?” He’s been used to yell at me for drinking it for a couple of years now, and Lilia always pours the bland decaf shit for me; she says caffeine’s gonna hurt my performance more than it can help it. I always make it up by smuggling -actual- coffee into my room when she’s not looking. 

“I figure… I should rest today, and it won’t really help” I sound pathetic, obvious even. Who could believe something like that? He knows I’m bullshitting my way out of this talk desperately so he just lets it pass.

“OK, just have something. And let me know if you’re planning on having lunch on the house, I’ll probably be going in an hour or two. “ I nod and walk to the kitchen suspiciously fast. Well, that was fucking awkward, thank you. Let’s just get this ready and get the fuck back to my bedroom. 

  
  


He doesn’t hear me get into my room right away: he’s too focused on a book he must’ve picked up while I was away, holding it open with one hand while the other absentmindedly traces softly his bottom lip. He looks completely focused on his reading, brows barely furrowed and completely still. His head doesn’t jerk up until I sit down in front of my laptop again and Anje purrs loudly against my arm, asking for a sip of my cup. I hear him adjusting his position against the leather coated couch and lift my gaze up, only to meet his transparent dark stare, always honest, always inviting; he closed his book and is now resting on his lap, both hand on top of it. He’s smiling in a particular way that send a tingling sensation down my spine. I refuse to acknowledge it. 

“Your princess’ going to steal your coffee” I look at where he’s pointing and she Anje meditating between the options of melting her face off for a bit of chocolate or wait until it cools down and ask for it; she seems more inclined for the first one. I take her out and put her on my lap, one hand rubbing her neck so she stays while taking a sip with the other.

“It’s chocolate, it… was already made, so” I can tell he’s not buying it, not even I could believe that. That smug face he makes, he knows he won this round. Again. Damn it. I can’t really tell at this point if he’s actually outsmarting me or I just want to see that smirk he makes when he knows he’s won again. “What are you reading?” I secretly beg for his webcam to be shitty enough for him not to notice the blush on my cheeks.

“Dostoievsky. I’m not sure it’s your thing, though.” He chuckles when I make a snoring sound; can’t get much more specific than that. “Say, Yura”

“Yeah?” He looks radiant when he laughs like that, and it’s simply contagious. 

“What do you want for your birthday?”

“... There’s still over a month for that, Beka…”

“I know, I know, but we’re in different countries. I’ll have to mail you a present and I’ll need time for it to get there.” Right. Fuck. I forget sometimes we’re not just a couple of blocks away from each other. What could I want for my birthday? My friend, for once, and my grandfather.... 

“I was thinking about going to see my Grandpa…”

“OK”

“But I do want you” on my birthday. Finish the sentence, you idiot. We’ve been through this already.

“So, I should get the planes tickets for what date, exactly?” WOW. Right. He’s not Mila, he’s just gonna let it go. Good. 

“ I don’t know. 26, 27? I’ll get you at the airport…”

“Don’t bother. I’m renting a motorbike. I’ll miss it if I don’t.” And I’ll miss the Barcelona tour; I wonder how does Moskow looks from the top of a speeding bike. Grandpa won’t like it, though, but he’ll like him: he’s kind, they’ll get along. I just hope I don’t do anything stupid in the meantime or start blushing for no apparent fucking reason. “Speaking of, I have to go to the shop this afternoon for some spare parts, so I’ll allow you to get out into the world” he grins like an idiot when he says that, and kneels closer to the laptop so I can see him almost as close as he was back at the spanish hotel. “If you want me for your birthday, you’ll have me, but for now, I must go”

“That sounds fucking odd” I snort trying to get the weight out of his words. If you want me you’ll have me. He should stop just letting me do whatever I feel like; He should know I fuck up constantly by now.

“That’s exactly how you worded it, so you deal with that. I’m too busy for it. Bye for now, Yura.” He winks at the camera and shut off the conversation. I can feel even the tips of my ears hot as fucking branding iron, and I’m sure I’m just as red. I just wish he couldn’t see that. The whole situation’s bothering me, I can’t just let him go having the last word after he fucking tricked me. That wink was a dirty move. 

**“You fucking tease.”** You like period ending texts? This time you have it. You deserve it. 

**“Save it for tonight, Yura. Enjoy your sunday.”**

**“Fuck you”**

* * *

  
  


So. Now what?

I’ve asked permission to go to Moscow to see my Grandpa for a week on my birthday, but… Should I tell them he’s coming too? I mean. He’s not passing through here, so they don’t really need to know, right? But then again… 

Mila wanted to come. She actually interrupted a conversation with my grandfather on the phone just to tell him she’s coming. If I don’t bring her, it’ll be much more suspicious than if I do.

But what the hell it would be suspicious after all? I mean, he’s my best friend and she’s the annoying big sister I never had and certainly never asked for; what’s the big deal with it?

She is. She’s gonna sink me down: she’s gonna try to embarrass me every chance she gets -and if Beka smiles at me just once the way he does I’m gonna give her every chance, I know it-. I’ll have to have a word with her.

**“Hey bitch, when are you going whoring around?”** She said she was busy today; if she really is, she just won’t answer. 

**“Hey, Kitty. Later (heart emoji). Need anything?”** She uses those hearts A LOT.

**“Yeah. About my birthday”** I’m just hoping she says it was joke. I’m even a bit scared about asking.

**“Am I going to meet your beloved grandpa?”** A cold sweat runs down my spine. Her and my grandpa in the same room together? She can be civil, I know, I’m just not sure she wants to.  **“Fret not, baby tiger, I know you adore him and I wouldn’t fuck it up for you. It’s your birthday, you’ll get the best week ever.”**

**“STOP. MAKING UP. NEW. FUCKING. NICKNAMES. The whole week? You’ll be there the whole week? AND YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???”** I really want to call down and put her in place. I really really want to. But right now the world is looking red and all I can spit out is fire,  **“You better not fuck this up for me”**

**“LISTEN KIDDO; RELAX. I’m not staying with you. Not one night. I’ll be a good sport, I just wanna meet your favorite guy. Seriously, tone it down;you should trust me a bit better by now”** . She was always there for me to talk to, I guess. Not exactly available, but… There. She invited herself to the party with nosy comments and shitty comebacks, but after THOSE she is quite… helpful. Isn’t she? She’s been covering my ass everytime I text Beka with other people around; she could have said something by now. It’s just, just… The phone rings: she’s calling. Since when does she actually call?

“Is this because of Altin? Is he going?” she doesn’t sound angry or raise her voice; her tone is resigned, even sweet. But the sound of his name exasperates me at this point: it’s like having the perfect program and trip on your feet: everything flows in slow motion and you just know the ice is gonna hit like concrete and break under your feet. 

“WHAT COULD HAVE POSSIBLY GIVE YOU THE FUCKING IDEA THAT…”

“I don’t know, it’s your birthday and he’s nice so he wanted to see you? Maybe you invited him? Maybe your grandfather was curious and invited him? Whatever, but that outburst just now is new, and you can’t hide from me, Yurotchka, you know that.” She talks to me like I’m having a fit, and I probably am. I just…. I can’t seem to feel safe right now. The ice is getting close and I don’t know if I can get up from this.

“Listen... “ Deep breath, fuck, don’t swear for once. Shit. “Listen… Please be civil. Just… for once. Please.” I realize that I’m begging but I need her to push down the lump on my throat; my hands are shaking and I just hope that can’t be noticed on a phone call.  I need her to rescue me from myself. 

“I’m honest. I just want to know your grandfather. One night, in and out. No tricks, no games: I’ll be staying on a friend’s house. I will not be circling you, Yurotchka, trust me.” She does sound honest, decided. Deep breath. Fuck. In and out. One night. I can do that, He’ll surely can. What was that she say? He’s a nice guy. He’ll manage. Breathe. 

“You will behave.” Breathe. “Promise.” Let your hands still slowly, relax, just breathe. “Please.”

“I like him, didn’t I tell you that already?” Silence. It’s not helping me, Mila. “I promise. I’ll be around the city just in case you need me -not that you would, just in case-, but not one word out of place. I promise”. I throw a tantrum because she wants to share my birthday with me. I almost have a fucking heart attack because she wants to spend my birthday with me. I am either a complete idiot with no idea what in store for him, or a shitty shitty little person. I prefer not thinking about that just now, just…

“Thank you.” I just hope he doesn’t notice..

“Your voice is breaking, are you seriously OK? I can go over if you…”

“NO. I’m fine, just… Sorry. “ An idiot or a piece of shit. Let’s take a wild guess.

Mh…” I can hear her chuckling slightly on the other side; she sounds relieved, at least. “I love you too, Kitty.”

“Fuck you, Mila.”

 

* * *

  
  


It’s already late at night and it’s even later for him, and yet, he texts. He always does. 

**“How was the rest of your free day today?”**  My heart starts racing like crazy. I don’t know, I just bitched to Mila for the fun of it and if she round kicks me in the face the next time he sees me I’ll have it coming for sure.

**“Not much. HBU?”** It feels like an animal caged, trying to get out; as if my chest was a dam about to be cracked down by the flood. And that is a damn powerful current.

**“OK.”** It’s much different to the pain from before, the panic, the feeling there’s no voice coming out of my throat…  The anxiety tries to take in again. Fuck, did I fuck it up on my own? Why did I bitch to her, then? I should have known I was the one who was gonna mess things up, not her. I should have fucking known.  **“It’s okay if you do not want to tell me.”** I don’t know how to move around you when they are others present, ok? I’m a twitchy angry mess and I can’t stand it.

**“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s been a hard day and I’m not feeling great”** . I notice the intimacy of that text after I hit send. It’s not the first time I let my heart out to him, he makes me feel safe, shielded from any obnoxious eyes, but this time it feels specially personal. I just had a fight  _ because of you.  _ Well, not… that it is his fault, AT ALL, it’s just that…

Incoming text. Only, it is not a text: it’s an audio note. “Would you tell me? I promise I’ll stay awake the whole night if you need me to.” It’s mind numbing: his low, drowsy voice sounds like dripping honey, sweet and relaxing; I wonder if I could feel it vibrating through my fingers if I ever dare to caress softly the delicate skin of his collarbone, moving up to his neck, slowly, gently, towards the back of his head and… I’m getting way WAY out of line. Fucking 15 years and fucking hormones and fucking sexy sweet bastard with his sexy sweet voice and sexy sweet manners that are not fucking helping at all! I’m clearly not telling that; I need to take a moment to answer. I do wanna answer. Mila tries her best but she can’t soothe me down as tenderly and easily as he does. 

I press record, I vomit my heart’s contents so abruptly I’m surprised how long that message got so suddenly. Stop. Send. 

Fuck my curiosity. Play. Something along the lines of  _ IjustwantedtoseeyoubecauseImissyoubutMilaiscomingtoMoscowtooandwhatifitgetsawkwardorGrandpadoesn’tlikeanyofyoubecauseMilaishardtotreatsometimesandyouhaveamotorbikeandhedoesn’tlikemotorbikesandit’ssostressfulIneedtotakeadiveonapitchpitandjuststaythere _ splurts out of the speaker. I’ll be damned if he gets ANY of that, that was light speed ranting. Shit. The next is a text again. He must have understood that audios aren’t making this any easier on me, although I do appreciate the effort. 

**“Let’s see if I can cover it all: I miss you too, it will be fine, relax, and please don’t throw yourself on a pitch pit.”** I’m not sure if I should tell him that’s just figurative speech or…  **“Your fans will be disappointed if your beautiful angelic face gets all covered by black goo.”** No I shouldn’t, he’s messing with me. Again.  And suddenly the room feels incredibly hot despite the snow falling on the outside. Damn it, doesn’t he even notice the things he say? I want to answer, I want to, so badly, but I can’t think of a good comeback: I feel like an idiotic kid starstruck on a hallway: say something now or they’ll go. Shit. The tip of my fingers feel tingly at the memory of my own curiosity, I let them trail softly up and down my waist, absentmindedly, but now it’s just increasing the need to rip away my clothes and my breath becomes jagged and superficial; I realize I’m panting, and press my face into my pillow to avoid the soft lingering sound that try to come out of me. I refuse. I press my knees shut tight and I refuse. I will not fall into your game. Fucking hormones. He texts again and I realize then I haven’t answered him yet.  **“Also, what is wrong with bikes? Excuse me but I’ll take offense on that one.”** Seriously now? You just called me “angelic” and now you’re gonna throw a tantrum? 

**“He says they’re dangerous, he wouldn’t like to know you’ve already given me ride”** Let’s not talk about the other things you've given me today, with those cheeky smiles, that wink, the fingertips barely touching your lips… Fuck.

**“I’m not going to fight him about it, I just want you to know I’ll probably really want to.”**  Dorky idiot.

**“Don’t you dare mess with my grandfather.”** Definitely serious enough for a period at the end. 

**“I could always fight you.”** He’s playing me at this point. He’s done too much to my head right now, I need just one small victory, and then I’ll go to bed happy.

**“COME AT ME, BRO”**

**“I like you better when you laugh than when you’re frowning though, but I could. The possibility stands.”**

**“Scared of a fifteen year old with a “beautiful angelic face”? I was expecting more of you.”**

**“Ouch. I knew you were a fierce soldier, I didn’t know you were going to lash out at me. I’ll have to take down my flag for now, but tomorrow is always a new day.”** Wow. I won. I actually won. One round at least. At this shameful state of mind, to put it nicely. My fingernails are clawing my legs at this point, I can’t just take him out of my head if I keep on texting him in the meantime, damn it.  **“Goodnight, Yura. Relax, you’re stronger than a birthday dinner plan. We’ll talk in the morning.”**  If I could only express in words all of this… the light headed feeling, heat and the panting, and the need to… to… Fuck, control yourself. I can be stronger than this. I have to. 

**“Goodnight, Beka. You really make a difference”** I know he’ll understand with just that, he always does. If I keep on texting I might not stand the throbbing pain I’m trying so hard to ignore. Shit.

I turn on my stomach and just bite the pillow. Hard. Anje knows to stay away when I get this moody:I have kicked her more than once in my sleep. One hand gets tangled in my  my hair in desperation while the other just stops resisting the desire that burns me from the inside out now, and that fucking sound again escapes my lips in a second flat: it’s concealed through the pillow, but constant, and I just beg that no one walks past my door and hear his name being pathetically moaned from the outside. 

Fucking hormones. Fucking tease. 


	3. Chapter 3

February 25. I just got off the plane with as very little luggage as I could bring: a leopard print suitcase that’s still not showing on the baggage carrousel and the backpack that used to be on my shoulder, now hanging loose from my wrist; the wait seems like forever and Mila left me to fetch a pair of coffee ages ago.

That could have been minutes, really, but every minute seems like a fucking lifetime here. A familiar bag, black and magenta patterned, show up on the belt amongst a ton of others and I almost fall head first into the thing; the kiddy besides was about to laugh, I’m sure, but he pulls back when he see my face: no one mocks the Ice Tiger of Russia... Apart from the freezing cold hand suddenly thrusted against the back of my neck.

“What the fuck, Mila?!” She tries to silently scold me, a disposable travel cup in each hand, for cursing in front of the child, but he was about to mock me, so fuck him. She reaches behind me and pushes my own bag roughly out of the device.

“Trade?”

“Only if I can get my coffee now.” We get our bags and go to the door: I told my grandfather she was gonna stay with friends, but he insisted on picking us both up, so I charge across the airport doors looking for his hardly conspicuous car.  I spot him half a block away and take Mila’s hand, dragging her behind me; Grandpa is already out of the car to open the trunk for us.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Plizestky: it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you” She looks adorable when she wants to, with a smile that could put out a fire out of shame for not shining bright enough. Still a bitch, though: good at hiding, I must concede, but bitch nonetheless.   
“Ah, you must be Mila. My boy talks a great deal about you, you must spend some time together. May I?” He motions to the luggage but she just gestures him to let her and lift one in each arm to arrange neatly on the small trunk. I can hear him audibly gasp: after all, despite her body strength, she looks thin and delicate. She’s as delicate as a blunt and rusty 20kg broadsword. He doesn’t need to know the extents of it just yet.

“Grandpa, let’s get going, OK?” the cold wind is starting to get through my clothes and he looks at me like he always does, grinning wide; he tooks a paper bag out of the passenger’s seat and puts it in my hand. Mila sits quietly on the back and makes small talk while trying the katzudon pirozhkis he’s made for us: surprisingly, she avoids telling him the ways I fell flat on my ass when I was a kid, she just praises my “determination”, as she says. The will of a soldier…

“So, Yurotchka, when is your friend coming? The foreign one, I can’t remember the name.” It pulls me out of my… daydreaming? It takes me some time to process the question and for some reason my fingers start fidgeting.

“Otabek, Grandpa, he’s kazakh. He’s gonna go directly home tomorrow for supper” On his motorcycle. Which you won’t make me ride but I will anyway. And probably feel guilty about it. But it’ll sort itself out. It will.

“Why can’t I take him? I wouldn’t like him to freeze on some stranger’s cab”

“No, he wanted to come on his own, he’ll… drive home.” Don’t ask, please, don’t ask.

“I see… Well, I’ll put on the heating just in case he’ll need it tomorrow.”  I nod and let them talk again of the ice and Lilia’s home and everything, fishing the phone out of my pocket.

**“On Grandpa’s car, going home.”** It’s around nine so it should be, again, stupidly late for him. But stupidly late has never stopped him before.

**“Good. Let me know when you get home.”**

**“Mila’s being a sweetheart, I feel like I’ve been sucked into another dimension.”** Truth is, I miss you and I don’t know how else to initiate a conversation.

**“You might not be wrong on that.”**

**“.... What? Didn’t have you for a paranoid science junkie type”**

**“I mean, Mila is voluntarily letting go of opportunities to make fun of you, you texted me first for once…”** Oh, come on. Are you joking, or offended or what? It’s not like I was SCARED of texting you, it’s just… safer if you do. Talk about preteen silly speeches, uh?

**“Well, you haven’t, so I had to take the lead”** I’m not letting you playing with my mind just now.

**“Good. I like you leading.”**  That will definitely be playing with my mind. Shit. Fuck. You can be such a smooth motherfucker, and worst of all, I don’t think you realize that. I’m not gonna be the one to tell you. Not now. Not at all.

“Yurotchka, is something wrong? You’re staring at your phone and it’s not even on” Fucking red light that let Grandpa check on what I was doing. Mila represses a chuckle and look straight at me to let me know she knows _exactly what’s going on._

“Nothing, Grandpa, I was just talking to some friends..”  
“Oh, is that the japanese Yuuri or his fiance? I’d figure you’d like to spend some time with them since they’re important to you…” Something in my head click. Yeah, they’re important. It’s definitely important for me to GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THEM AND THEIR EXCESSIVE PDA FOR ONCE.   
“NO... Sorry. No, I would NEVER call them… they’re really into each other”   
“Oh, that’s nice..”   
“No, gramps REALLY INTO EACH OTHER. As in, they should probably never leave the bedroom and make life easier for all of us.” Mila at this point starts laughing uncontrollably: Grandpa looks at me with the same disgusting face I do them on a fucking daily basis, and she can’t stop cracking up and pointing. Eventually we start snickering and join her: they’re perverted, and disgusting, and stupid, but it’s not entirely wrong, I guess. The phone buzzes on my hand and I check on it just in case: there’s a couple of messages asking if I already landed and so on, so I wait until the next red light to  put my phone up.

“Hey, Grandpa, come, let’s take a picture!”

  


Instagram update. “Back home, safe and sound!” #familyties #alwaysaround #yesIdidgotoutoftheplaneOK   
@v-nikiforov _Good to know, have a great birthday!_

@Mila-bara _Let’s rock it up, baby!_

@IceCastle-Prod _Im so happy for you! Have a great week!_

* * *

 

We drop Mila at her friends’ house with the promise she’ll come back the night of my birthday, although she does mention she’s not gonna just disappear because “curiosity is a powerful powerful thing”, and get ready for dinner. We were already sitting on the table when the phone buzzed, but I still don’t dare picking it up: I haven’t had a family dinner in a while and I don’t wanna ruin it. But curiosity, in fact….

“Why don’t you answer? Maybe they want to know you’re all right” I was about to answer but hey, if he’s letting me… It’ll just be a minute.

**“Say hi to your grandfather for me; I wasn’t sure to comment on your Instagram.”** I wouldn’t know if I should laugh or get pissed. OF COURSE YOU CAN COMMENT ON IT. Fuck, the fucking Angels are commenting on it. And wasn’t it that…?

**“I thought you didn’t like social media. Why wouldn’t you comment on it?”**

**“I still have the account: I get the notifications anyways. I don’t know how you feel about it.”**  What the fuck does that mean?

**“About WHAT. You’re my friend, Beka. I want you around.”** That sounded a bit more personal than intended. I can feel the staring from the other side of the table.

  
“Yurotchka, is everything alright? You’re blushed” Damn it. I need to stop doing that. Seriously. He’s a friend, isn’t he? Just a friend. Fuck.

“YES… Otabek’s embarrassed and doesn’t dare to comment on the picture. Why wouldn’t he? No one is gonna bite him. There’s always a lot of stupid comments around calling me.. names. “ At this I just hope he doesn’t notice the fear of him asking WHAT names exactly. The russian fucking fairy. That’s one I’ve never asked for.

“Well… considering your most famous rinkmate is engaged suddenly to another skater, maybe he’s trying to take care of you in front of the cameras. “ It’s like I just dived face first on the борщ: face beet red and piping hot. I don’t even know what to say at this point so I focus on the buzzing of the phone. It’s him again.

**“I know, I wish people were as nice as you are, Yura, but they’re not. And I still get asked about Barcelona. I just don’t want to interfere with your career.”** I can tell Grandpa is waiting on a comment or something; after all, I pretty much read my texts out loud to him, so I turn the phone sideways so he can only see the last two or three messages and give it to him. He’ll know better. He gestures me to let me know he’s gonna record an audio message and I nod: he can do it much better than me. I hope. My hands are fidgeting under the table: these are my two favourite people, they’ll be fine. But. What if they don’t like each other?

After a few try and errors on holding the recording button, the message finally comes out: “Damn this little thing, how do you… oh! It’s recording! Ok, listen: you’re my boy’s friend and he’s around you for a reason. He wouldn’t like you to hide like this! He’s a proud strong fella and so should you. Just treat him well and be proud for he is gonna give you many reasons to(Grandpa!).” I know my voice got into the recording as well but I couldn’t help it: I’d rather stop him there than let him rant about things that happened a long long time ago. He answers. It’s a voice note: “... I’m aware of that, I’m more than lucky to have the chance to be a part of his life, and I am indeed, so very proud of him”. He sounds formal and sincere: there’s something about his voice, not stiff as people get when being…. Well, scolded, but warm, sweet, like melting honey or…. Or a delicate, small twist of the mouth, parting away all toughness on his gaze, barely tracing his lower lip with his tongue….

Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m sitting at dinner with my grandfather, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“I like him” His simple resolution takes me by surprise, and my head snaps at him. He sips his drink and looks at me. “He sounds serious and level headed. And he likes you.” The simplicity is astonishing. But relieving. I push myself over the table to hug him and he tries to move things away while hugging me back; I think I surprised him, but it was something I was dwelling on for the past…. Fuck, since I invited him over. A huge weight seems to have lift up from my chest; now I can really have the week I was waiting for. I’m so incredibly happy I barely notice the buzzing, I jump down on my chair and go straight to the texting app:

  
**“He likes you! :D”** I’m just so glad I start talking randomly about his skating and how he’s so cool with others and doesn’t listen to JJ to my Grandpa while he just looks at me, grinning wide.

**“Good.”** His message seems a bit off, like he wanted to say something else and wouldn’t dare. I can’t really mind right now, I’ve got time to check on him: I’m just...

They’ll be all together to celebrate with me. Just because I asked.

I’m just so happy.  

  


I go to bed after doing the dishes to leave my grandfather rest for a bit and check out my Instagram just in case. There’s one new notification.

@altin-otabek _I’ll be there in some hours, don’t leave me behind._

@mila-bara _oh, we would NEVER. We’re anxiously waiting for you, aren’t we?_

 

Come one, Mila. fuck. Two texts come in almost at the same time. Seems like her response was posted just now, but I won’t dare answer her, not without putting her in place.

**“Didn’t I say it already? Fascinating.”**  What the fuck does that mean, bitch?

**“You won’t do anything weird, would you? And what’s with that comment?”**

**“I would never stand between you and the man candy you call a friend (heart emoji). I was hoping for some… reaction. But only your pussycats answered. What a shame”** That is nasty, woman. And what the fuck you mean with “man candy”? It’s not like I hang out with him just because of his looks, or his impressive, skating, or his voice seems to pulse through your body when he speaks to you close enough…. I’m ranting. Again. Fuck. He’s gonna be staying with me and I can’t even think about his voice over the phone without going all hormone induced fangirl on him. Shit. The worst thing, at this point, I think he’s probably having fun with it. Breathe, answer, close the conversation, move on. It’s not so hard. Come on.

**“Beware, баба, you’re walking on thin ice”** You promised. No tricks.

**“I’ll behave. I promised. I won’t tease if someone else is watching, so you better get yourself some company (wink emoji). I’m going dancing, Kitty, don’t wait up. Love you! (heart emoji)”** Well, she’s not gonna embarrass me in front of my grandfather, that’s a plus. But she WILL be vulturing me every chance she gets. Fuck. I know Beka won’t play along with her, at least, so I’ll be fine. Because Grandpa likes him. I open up his conversation to text him and see the message I haven’t read before.

**“I’ll be boarding in a few minutes. I can use the airport’s WiFi until the take-off and that’s it. See you tomorrow?”** I’ll miss you.

**“Yes! хорошая поездка** **!”** I can’t wait to see you. I just hope you’re still there.

**“(thumbs up emoji)”** Dork.

**“You use emojis now? That’s new”**

**“Well, why not? You do.”** Yeah but you’re Otabek “too cool for you” Altin, you dorky idiot.

**“I’m fifteen.”** The next text comes a bit late, and I start to worry whether he’s already on the air or not. But it’s because it’s not just a text: it’s that one thing he doesn’t do. A selfie. Plane half empty, no one’s sitting besides him; his hair pitch black against the seat’s fabric, his gaze lovingly drowsy, his arm tucked behind his head, a V-neck black shirt, worn  and stretched, that shows the curve of his neck, the depth of his collarbone, the delicate dark satin of his skin…. Mumbling again. Fuck me. It does have a caption, though:

**“Goodnight, Yura. And good morning. See you tomorrow, this time for real.”** I can’t stop thinking about the angle his neck does, like leaving room for someone to taste his skin, to caress him gently with their teeth, to brand him and feel him moan under their lips….

This is starting to feel like a really nasty habit: he does something mostly harmless and my mind goes from 0 to 100 in a second,  and I haven’t even been around him for two months. Since I fucking met him. This is getting ridiculous. And what is worse is that I know I shouldn’t and it’s completely disgusting. I know I shouldn’t check if Grandpa is asleep, close my door as quietly as possible, jump onto my bed, lying on my stomach and pull the cover all the way up while wearing stupidly wide long PJs, and just stare at such a photo. I know I shouldn’t be tracing a soft path under my clothes, around my skin, fingernails barely making contact, from my neck through my chest to my legs and up to my… I know I shouldn’t be stroking gently the tip, while thinking of him, of what he’d taste like under my teeth, how he would tremble to the thirsty need of my hands, exploring him,  marking him, feeling what makes his breath shallow, his voice transformed. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about whether he gasps or moans or growls when his cock is being gripped firmly and his hips can’t help but thrust into that hand violently as mine do; i shouldn’t be thinking about the way his hands must feel groping on my ass, his head jerked against the pillow and his back arched enough to separate from the mattress, how his voice, maybe soft and velvety, maybe loud and rough and wanting, mixes along the desperate catlike whimpering of my own against the pillow, louder, faster, harder. I know I shouldn’t listen to the scream caught silently on my throat, followed a barely audible meow and falling completely limp on the bed, my trousers damp and my breath quivering. I know i shouldn’t wonder how does he look when he’s finished, all sweaty and heavy breathing, hair rustled or glassy eyes, or…

I know I shouldn’t text him.

 

**“I’ll miss you”**

 

I know I shouldn’t.

* * *

борщ = borscht.

хорошая поездка= safe trip

* * *

 

 

 

He doesn’t answer until that afternoon. I am aware that he’s got a thirteen hour flight but still… I wish I could unsend that text, I wish I could undo so much… I wish I was much stronger than I am.

But he does answer. Short, simple. Fine

**“I missed you too. Text me your address, I’ll be there around six.”** I don’t dare to text my luck: just a simple text, address and nothing more. I feel the tension, the static in the air: a storm is coming and I brought it home. I can’t seem to concentrate in whatever Grandpa is saying over the table, there’s just this constant turmoil on my mind, like a buzzing that keeps me detached from the world. Is that… guilt?

“Yurotchka, are you alright? You look off today.” I can’t guess how many times has he asked that in the past ten minutes; I can’t really guess if I was, in fact, listening ten minutes ago, or this morning, or… There’s something so inherently wrong about everything today, something off, something…

“No, gramps, I…” How would you explain something like that? To your grandfather? “I had a pretty vivid bad dream, I’ll go lay down. I’m really sorry.” you don’t, not to him. He doesn’t need to know this part.

“I’ll let you know when your friend comes, please rest, dear. Oh, and Yuri?” He stops to give me time to turn around in the middle of the hallway just to know I was still paying attention to him. “Get some rest, ok?”  His eyes show the exhaustion of preparing everything for my arrival, and his, in an hour or so. He’s been a while planning this, thinking about seeing me again, waiting forward to this moment, and I…. I’m a horny little kid with his head on the clouds. Damn it. I need to really snap out of it. But I just can’t tell him that. But there is someone I can talk to, actually. Someone who said was there for me.

“I will, I promise. Sorry for worrying you, Gramps.” I walk away with a smile though I know that haven’t really make him feel any better; at this moment I’m not capable of anything more sincere.

The only thing I can think of right now is the filth, the guilt, the wrong, gnawing at my brain, letting me out of it, lethargic, alone. Fuck.

  


**“Just so you know, you’re not winning a thing. But I need you, Mila.”** She doesn’t answer straight away: she must be with someone. After all, she was visiting friends, right?

**“Do you want me to call you?”** No. Fuck, please don’t, I wouldn’t stand it if you can hear my weakness over the phone. It’s enough that I have to feel it. **“I’m not winning anything if your head isn’t on the right place, Yuri. It’s not fun if you’re actually in pain.”**

**“Well, it’s on a fucking silver platter right now.”** She won’t back down no matter what I have to say, she doesn’t have exactly a weak stomach.

**“Well, would you care to elaborate?”**  I’m not really sure at this point if this is a good idea, but after a good ten minutes I decide if either her or no one, and he’ll be coming (haha, clever little shit brain, boicotting my own train of thought) in less than an hour, assumedly. Traffic is slow with the snow, though, so there’s that at least.

**“I’m fifteen and Beka’s hot as hell.”** I REALLY don’t want to talk about this. Shit. I just hopes she understands.

**“Soooo, you rubbed one out thinking of him and it makes you anxious?”** Ok, she’s quick. Damn it, that might be dangerous. Either she really knows me ar she’s been in the situation before.

**“YOU DON’T GET IT. HE’S GONNA BE HERE IN AN HOUR.”** I knew I had to word that carefully: after all, it is Mila we’re talking about. **“And it wasn’t once. I wouldn’t feel like this if it was.”**

**“You feel bad because you have crush on your friend? Honey, people do. I do. A LOT. It’s okay, they don’t stop being beautiful human beings because they get close to you: they’re usually even more intoxicating when they do. Trust me, you’ll be fine. Relax.”** Cool, so you just want to bang everyone. Nice. That really fucking helps. And intoxicating? Really? It’s like asking twisted-failed-poledancer Chris for advice. I’m not like that. I am not. I cannot be. I’ve got better things to care about than crushes and...

I don’t know, fucking heatwaves.

**“Just go with it. Tell him, or don’t, whatever. He won’t feel offended.”** Well,no, not offended. Threatened, maybe. Or completely out of fucking place, are you fuckng kidding me right now?

**“You know what? Thanks. Also fuck you.”**

**“Puss.”** I can hear my grandfather screaming at me to get up. “He’s at the door, go meet him!” and my hands start shaking. Shit, control yourself, it’s fine, it’s all good, it’s not like he can smell it on you or somethin. The lust…. I take a deep breath and look at my phone to quiet down; maybe she’s right, maybe it’s not that bad, maybe it’s normal. **“You wanna fuck your cute bff. Deal with it.”**

Ok, maybe I’m not calming down. But he’s still waiting.

 

* * *

  


My hands are still sweaty and trembling, and there's a low thumping on my head, like something banging to get out; I can see his silhouette through the door glass, leaning on the motorbike under the snow.

The keys rattle on the lock and he comes forward: a whole display of sensations suddenly unravel. The rapid thud of my anxious heart, the fidgeting of my fingers, the weakness on my knees and the freezing touch of the air outside on my shoulders, bare because of the sweater way too big for my frame, in contrast with the raging inferno trailing down from my spine as the imagined contact of his skin did, covering every inch of skin on my body.

But everything seems different when I finally open the door: his hair wet and slightly messy because of the waiting under the falling snow, the leather jacket soaking wet, drenching his fingerless gloves, his gaze exhausted but his subtle smile always charming and warm. There's no storm that can darken the light that smile brings to the world.

And that is as sappy as it gets, ew. Still, it suddenly feels like we haven't been one day apart:

“You're soaking wet! You seriously saw a snow storm and thought “this is a great day for a ride”? Are you out of your mind?” I open the door for him and he chuckles softly, still on the doorway

“I might be. I told you I'd miss it” he doesn't move to say hello in any way and I don't really know what I was expecting. A kiss out of nowhere would be really weird of him, wouldn't it? Almost as weird as flirting through a webcam.

“Put the bike on the hallway, I'll talk grandpa on it. Take your boots out, I'll bring you some slippers, hold on”. I'd swear he was about to laugh when I turned my back to him, running in to get the slippers and a couple of towels while my grandpa stared at me shuffling through the house.

When I come back to him, he's on his socks, no gloves on and slicking his hair back with his fingers, looking at the wall; if I didn't know any better I'd say he's Nervous. “Here, put these on and give me your jacket”, he looks at me raising an eyebrow when I hand him the tiger print paw slippers, “they're mine, ok? Don't look at them like that”, I throw a towel at his face and put the other one under the coat rack while he gently dries his hair and pass me the drenched leather.

“I'm sure these look way better on you” he says, trying to hide the embarrassed grin.

“What? They're cool!”

“Of course. On you I'm sure they are”

“Shut up, idiot. Let's get inside” I turn to hide the fire red that's starting to creep onto my face. There's still something annoying me though: three months without seeing each other and no fucking hello? “Oh, and one more thing…” I throw myself at his arms so he doesn't have the time to focus on the blush spreading rapidly and only reacts by holding me tight against his chest to avoid falling backwards. I can feel his body stiffen suddenly to relax a second later and rest his chin on the top of my head.

“Well, hello to you too, Yura.”

“This was a really bad idea”

“Mh?”

“You're freezing cold!” I can feel the low soft laugher vibrating from his chest; better than I imagine. Every little thing is, around him.

“Then let's go in and I won't be. “ I take a deep breath and try to calm myself:I doubt I can but we’ll have to go in at some point no matter what, so i just let him go and take a step back to take in the inebriating sweetness his gaze offers me for only a moment, not enough to let myself drown, not just now.

“Yeah”. I turn around, finally.”Let's.”

 

* * *

 

Grandpa is already setting up the table when he looks down, intrigued, and Otabek’s cheeks get a subtle pink tone: there you have a badass biker guy dressed all in  black and big fluffy tiger slippers. I can help but snicker and take the plates from Grandpa's hands while they introduce each other.

“So you’re my Yurotchka’s friend, right? He’s talked a lot about you.” He looks at him, curious, and allows him to continue, “you’re a… particular skater. I haven’t seen anyone quite like it. Congratulations.”

“I am flattered, sir, but sadly that wasn’t enough to reach the podium…”

“Oh, but it was outstanding nonetheless. Excuse me, mister, but you don’t need a gold medal to let you know you can amaze the world with your skills. You should feel pride in what you do.” The Kazakh looks down , embarrassed maybe, but rapidly looks up again with a wide smile on his face.

“Well, I am now, sir.” he takes a moment to keep going, “Especially if such a compliment comes from such a man as you are.” Now, Grandpa is definitely curious and I sit at the table just to listen to them.

“Oh, and what could such a man be?”

“To raise someone with such incredible strength and determination as his,” he subtly nods at my direction, he knows I’m listening already, but Gramps seems really into the conversation, “is definitely a deed one must take pride of. He must have had the best of examples at home.” That’s it: he just got the best of my grandfather. Fucking smooth move, if I may add.

“Oh, aren’t you a smooth talker? But what can I say, I like it”. The moment I hear them laughing together I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and they both turn to look at me at the same time. They have to understand I had my worries, so I refuse to feel guilty; Grandpa gets up to get dinner and sits me down by my shoulders when I try to get up and help him, because he “is not too old to handle a platter of pirozhkis, excuse you”. Beka chuckles at the remark and glances at me, a half smiles dancing in his lips; there’s a fire inside of me and the tinder on his deep brown eyes seems to let a spark loose every time I look into them, he’s intoxicating. I do have to take the tension away somehow, so:

“How was your trip?” I look at him with this “don’t mention the fucking bike part” look, I just hope he understands. We’re doing great today, maybe I can talk to Grandpa about it tomorrow morning?

“13 hours on a plane. Isn’t that the definition of hell?” he says rubbing the back of his neck, but still jokingly. We can hear the voice from the kitchen screaming “24 hours on a train, that’s hell!” and crack up at it, “He does have a point there. But it’s still not much fun”.

“Well, once during Juniors I did such a ramble of the way to Canada Yakov had to change the ticket back home for one on a plane with WiFi just so I won’t embarrass him out of boredom” I can’t hide my pride on that one: it was SUBLIME. Viktor had to put on earphones and pretend he didn’t come with us because of the murderous glares of the crew. “See, I ALWAYS GET WHAT I WANT.”

“Well, I’ll try into not put that much of a fight then, just to avoid ending up in a no-flight list for a whim”

“I wouldn’t do it to YOU, Beka.”

“I’ll prefer to keep it safe.” He seems to light up when he laughs like that: openly, unashamedly, nipping gently on his bottom lip when the chuckles dies down on his throat. I realize we’re staring in silence when Grandpa comes along with the platter and clears his throat fucking loudly to make us pay attention.

 

The dinner is nice and light hearted; it’s also the first time Otabek tries homemade pirozhkis, and he kept on praising my grandfather’s cooking and hospitality throughout the evening. After it, though, I’m not allowed to help doing the dishes because “you have a guest, go and tend to him”.

I  take Beka by the hand and guide him to my room; at some point he said that he was never of a social person (what a shocker( so when he couldn’t get himself into the ice rink at ungodly hours during his trainings at the States he used to play videogames on the arcade two blocks away from it.

And that in my world is a challenge.

I pull him in and turn around to face him almost immediately: he seems startled by it but I don’t mind, I do always get what I want.

“Let’s bet something!”

“Bet on what?”

“Scared?” he raises his brow; he doesn’t like to sit on his ass when he’s being challenged either, we are alike after all. “Let’s bet something”

“Ummm, let’s see… I want you… to get Mila to come along when the snow stops to see you learning how to drive.” He kept it safe and all, but Mila? That is a low blow, man.

“So you want her to see me fall on my ass, basically”

“At 0 speed, yes.” His grinning gets wide suddenly and I feel the need to slap it off his face, the fucker.

“Fine! But if I win…” _A kiss. Just a kiss._ “You’ll keep the slippers.”

“Yuri..”

“In or out? Decide!” I lean in to get closer to get, trying to be intimidating I guess, out of habit, but I feel I’m smiling so openly it’s just plain stupid; still, I’m so close I can feel the hot breath and the mild smell of cologne coming from him. If I dare to get just a step closer….

“Boys! I want the door open!” Grandpa shouts from the living room and I suddenly get so startled I realize I’ve never even let go of his hand; moreover, for some reason I’m holding both of them in mines.

I’m about to shout something back, but he just says “yes, sir” with his classic blank expression and lets the subject drop; he looks back at me, a smirk on his face and a sparkle on his eyes, without letting go of my hands.

“Well? What will it be,"  when I look him up in confusion, he adds:”The reason why you’ll be falling on your ass on the snow, that is.”

“Oi, don’t make promises you can’t keep, man”

“Prove me I can’t”. He could make me jump of a bridge if only he’d ask with that smug look on him: it’d feel like the reward’s worth it.

“You’re on!”

  


One tiny little detail: my grandfather’s house isn't exactly a palace: it’s the house where I grew in before leaving for the rinks in St. Petersburg and it’s, to say it lightly, cramped.

Minuscule apartment with two minuscule bedrooms; and a little kid in one who never had a friend over to play with, so he never bothered to get a second controller. In the heat of the competition we didn’t check social etiquettes: we decided to play a best out of three races each on time trial at Mario Kart, the best high score wins.

But then again, there’s no chairs in here and my bed is the one I used when I was a kid, so it’s not particularly wide either: Beka motions me to sit in between his legs and promptly crosses them, making me rest my head on his chest. I let him take the controller first and try to look straight forward, just in case. Turns out he is a hardcore gamer, after all. His heartbeat doesn’t shift even once, and his gaze is fixated on the screen; I look up to see the focus and resolve on his face and hear him mumbling, almost whispering something. “Егер сіз қарап жатқан”

“What?”

“You’re staring, Yura.” I can feel every inch of my skin igniting from his words and, now that I realize it, from the contact of his body pulsating against mine. I resist the urge to launch my hips backwards, just out of simple curiosity (let’s call it that) and am about to defend myself when he shoves the controller on my hand. I look upfront and there it is: a stupidly low record time. Fuck. He put Mila on the middle of it, I can’t lose no matter how good he is. And fuck, he’s good.

I take the controller from his hands harshly and sit up, thrusting my hips backwards as a reflex, and he catches them before I get too far back. I fix my gaze at the screen so the cartoon characters help me tone down the rapid blush spreading on my face when I noticed he isn’t putting his hands down, he doesn’t make any move or pressure: he’s just tenderly (what?) cradling my hipbone for a moment. Until he seems to realize what he’s doing and suddenly holds his breath and pushes himself backwards, further away from me. He doesn’t reach out during the rest of the game and I get to raise above it with my dignity intact as I beat his score for a weak margin.

Mostly intact, but then again, that’s what ridiculously long sweaters are for, right? Thanks heaven I didn’t change or the training skin tight outfit I’m wearing under it wouldn’t have left any doubts about the things the warmth of his body against mine, the tranquil beating on my ears, the so impossibly soft touch of his hands do to me.

He leans forward and strokes my arms, aiming to get the controller from me but stops midway and pulls his hands barely enough for not to touch me; now than I’m closer to him I can hear the racing heart, the doubt to go back or just get definitely away. I take his hands and close them on the controller in front of me just for him to go back to the cool reserved way he was.

Yet the awkward position forces him to pretty much lean against me. He’s not talking, just looking straight ahead, a pink blush covering his cheeks.

“Don’t get distracted: your honor is at stake” I tried to sound menacing but the yawning in the middle of it didn’t really help: as mesmerizing as his presence is, it’s also warm and safe. I close my eyes for a second and the next thing I know I’m already laying all the way back onto his chest, my lips so close to his collarbone I’m tempted to bite him, hard, only to figure out how deep he’s into the game.

But I can’t keep my eyes open long enough for it.


	4. Chapter 4

I try to rub away the slumber from my eyes: there’s an unbearable fucking noise and I can’t decipher what the hell is it. Is that…. My ringtone? Who the fuck could be calling? 

And who the hell calls anyway? That’s what texting and audio notes are for, fuckers. It feels so warm and… just right. I refuse to get up; but I just have to, someone really REALLY needs me to explain a little thing or two about calling people in the morning. I open my eyes to realize I was sleeping directly on top of Beka, who’s holding me by the middle with one hand and still clutching the controller off the bedside with the other. The screen is still lit: he must have fallen asleep while playing who knows how many games on his own. 

I try to slip over him to get off the bed and accidentally lean hard enough on his morning glory he lets out this low sort of growl and readjusts his position on a bed way too thin for anyone’s comfort granting me more room to keep on caressing him if I wanted to. I glance at him: completely, completely asleep. What a particular reflex to train. I try to be civil about it and wake him up carefully but the music, even when it’s stopped a bit ago, put me on the edge and now his… attributes showing even through the tight jeans (how the hell can he sleep in those, anyways?) are doing anything but helping me regain composure. 

I get completely ashamed at the desperate tone of my “Otabek, for fuck’s sake, get up”, almost begging, but I manage to find the strength to take his arm away from my waist and head over to the bathroom, where I flood the sink with cold water and dip my head in, just to see if it can go back to his fucking senses. I’m a guy. I’m a male, I know. Guys wake up with hard ons, they just do. It’s physiological, it happens all the fucking time. The fact that it was my friend, the guy I keep dreaming things you wouldn’t bring up in a dinner conversation, who just happens to fall asleep holding me, and who is definitely not wearing anything to help the view in any way, doesn’t change the matter that it’s natural and normal and it was gonna happen at some point in the week, right? Now, the fact that despite what he’s wearing it’s still pretty much as clear as it would be if he was wearing skin tight yoga pants, or that despite the deep slumber and the really heavy fabric in between, he still felt me enough to moan and stretch as if he was inviting me to keep on going. Fuck. 

He’s asleep, don’t play with people in their sleep, you fucking disgrace. Or don’t at all. Isn’t there supposed to be a clause somewhere on the friendship thing that you’re not allowed to want to fuck the brains out of your friend? I look at myself in the mirror and I can still see it: the damned lust. And in such a small, thin walled house. Shit. There’s nothing I can do about it, not now, not here; I’ll just have to go back and get my phone once and for all. 

When I get back to the bedroom he’s already rolled over and is facing the window, one hand behind his head and the other hanging off the edge of the bed; funny, he’s still got the slippers on.  I take the phone and sit on the floor so I don’t wake him up to look at the notifications. Fucking idiot, who the hell thinks calling someone on vacation at 9 am is an actual good idea?

**“You’d better be dying”**

**“Good morning Yurio!! I just wanted to know how you were doing, why are you so hard on me? T.T”** Fuck, man, you’re way too old for this. 

**“Could you please ask AFTER FUCKING NOON, IT’S 9 AM IN THE FUCKING MORNING.”** The next thing he sends is an audio and I’m sure he’s gonna play innocent in it too, so I just wait until Beka finishes rolling on his back and looks at me, still half asleep, to play it. “Yurioooo, I miss youuuu”, is he…. slurring? , “and Yuuri misses you toooo (stop it, Viktor, let them sleep!), no, tellim you missim, you askt forim befooore (Yuri, I’m sorry! I’ll take his phone away!)”. He perches on his elbows and looks at me; it’s enraging how hot he looks with a bedhead.

“Is that…. Five time champion, Russia’s legend…?”

“Booze is a vindictive bitch.” 

He tries to smirk but actually smiles wide and puts his head down. Is he planning on something?  “Give me your phone.”

I stare curiously at him but he merely holds his hand out, without as little as a flinch. I try to restrain myself from saying anything while he records: “Nikiforov, with all due respect,”it's amazing how sober a sleepy person can sound besides a drunken Viktor; but then again, Otabek has the skill of hiding every inch of emotion towards people he doesn’t want to socialize with. And that’s mostly everyone. “Could you please drunk blabber AFTER lunch at least? Let me go back to sleep.” and in that sentence, he didn’t hide it at all: he did sound like a frustrated sleepy teenager wanting to go back to bed. I couldn’t help but grin at how adorable he sounded, but before he got to see me he gives me my phone back and put his elbows down to rest his head on his arms.

**“Yuri, I can erase these texts before they get to Viktor if you want, but, was that Otabek Altin in your bed?** I know it’s obvious and he shouldn’t be surprised that he’s in my bed giving that there’s no other bed available in the house, it’s either mine or my grandpa's and that would be fucking weird, but the way he worded it… It’s like there’s a lump in my throat and I can’t spit it out; but I will fucking try. 

**“Of course that’s Otabek Altin in my bed, HE’S STAYING WITH ME, DUMBASS. I’m not the perverted fuck you both are”** _that can keep your hands away from each other for one night._

But in all total honesty, we didn’t keep our hands away from each other and we’ve been here one night alone. And I did wake up to his hard on poking my leg. But it wasn’t like them, it was necessary, right? Small bed, one controller… Mario Kart. Mario Kart is savage. 

Definitely not anything like them. 

**“I believe you, please don’t get mad. You won’t do anything inappropriate. But do you know he wouldn’t?”** There is something inherently insulting on that. I wouldn’t but he would? Is he treating my Beka like a fucking rapist?

**“HE. IS. NOT. ANYTHING. LIKE. YOU. TWO.”** At this point he lifts his head to stare at me, he can see the fury in my eyes by the way he looks at me fondly, trying to calm me down. He takes my phone off my hand and reads the whole conversation before recording. “Let’s assume I do want him. Why would you think I’d take advantage of him? Do you take me for an abuser?”.

The next audio arrives almost a second after: he’s good intimidating people, even though the drunken Russian babbling in the background never noticed. “Heavens, no! It’s just… he’s a kid, I don’t think he should… you know. He’s fifteen.” At this point the mist of slumber has already lifted from his eyes, and he’s visible pissed. It’s actually endearing, I don’t think I’ve ever had someone who wanted to defend me like this. 

“He’s almost of age both in Kazakhstan and in Russia, and he’s fierce enough to make his wishes understood. No one will ever touch him unless he wants to. No matter what you prefer. “ The next is a simple text; it’s obviously still Katsudon but it’s shocking, even though kind of cute, how he tries to protect me from something I don’t need protecting from. 

If there is one person in this world who’s not gonna hurt me, I’m sure that must be Otabek. People don’t do everything he’s done just to ditch someone. 

**“Have you had sex with him, yes or no. I won’t tell Viktor.”** That made him actually plain angry. It’s funny, I’m enraged as well, but seeing him like this makes me quiet, giving him the chance to fight this one for me; after all, only Mila has defended me before and that was actually purely physical, since I was always smaller than the rest of the kids my age. 

**“I haven’t. And if I wanted to and he’d wanted the same, the least of my concerns would be your approval. With all due respect.”** I know he didn’t record it because he’s seriously pissed of now, but when I ask him for the phone back I feel a clutching on my chest: I don’t even know what to say, if i should text him again or let it pass or…  The one thing I want to do more than all the others. 

I kneel on the floor just to be able to hug an unprepared and astonished sleepy Otabek and hold on to him while recording the last audio on the conversation. “YOU MAKE MY FRIEND ANGRY AGAIN AND I’LL RIP OFF YOUR BALLS AND SHOVE THEM DOWN YOUR THROAT!!”. 

I hear the keys on the door and I know Grandpa’s back from the walk around the block he does to alleviate his back pains under the cold breeze; I get up on my feet and reach out a hand to help`him off the bed. He looks straight at me while he takes it, wide eyed, but not scared. I’d say, maybe, fascinated?

“You’re a fucking зілзала.” That’s the first curse I’ve ever hear him say and it does takes me aback a bit.

“What’s that?”

“An earthquake. A natural disaster.”

“Are you scared?”

“I love it”.

 

* * *

  
  


I let Otabek change while I go make some coffee with Grandpa. He gets out of the bathroom a different person than the one shuffling on my bed a while ago: hair neatly slicked backwards, V-neck black fitted long sleeved T-shirt and, and… are those fucking skinny leather jeans, really? Put a bullet on my head, it’ll hurt fucking less than this. That reminds me, there’s one talk I haven’t had yet…

“One of the neighbours must have bought themselves a motorcycle: I was really surprised to see it there on my way out this morning..” Grandfather tries to sound casual, but you can hear the concern on his words; I’m about to interrupt him just to explain the situation but I’m too slow for it.

“That’s mine, sir. For the week.” The old man’s face stiffens and I unconsciously clutch the edges of my seat until my knuckles turn white: this can go so, so wrong.

“Those are dangerous, boy.” Otabek's face shows absolutely no change. At all.

“I’m aware. I’m careful.”

“I really hope you are, if you’re driving my boy in that thing. Why bringing it here all the way from Kazakhstan?”

“It helps me soothe my nerves whenever I need to step off the ice. And it’s rented, russian: it’s got a pretty good grip on snow as well.” Grandpa’s face seems to relax a bit. Not quite enough for me to calm down, but it counts.

“I guess that would explain the leather.” He’s smirking at him now, trying to tease him. He doesn’t know him: the boy is a worthy opponent, he doesn’t lose a battle easily. 

“Winter is savage on a motorbike, sir. But a bit of cold wind won’t scare me.” At this point they just stare at each other and crack up a smile, my grandfather inviting the guest to sit next to him in between chuckles. I let out a breath and let my hands go numb to my sides to go to the kitchen and bring another cup to place in front of him before he can be invited for coffee. 

“Beka doesn’t drink coffee. I made some green tea.” He’ve told me he it was one of his favourites some Sunday while we were having breakfast together over videochat. His smile seems to get a little bit warmer after my comment and something feels fuzzy inside of him. I have the urge to kick down a wall to make this impulse of kissing him go, but Grandpa is looking at me weird (curious?) already, so I just sit down and have a quiet breakfast, with barely a few comments here and there, until the subject of our activities for the day pops up. Beka looks at me and I realize I was so worried about them two getting along that I haven’t planned a thing. When he notices the panic on my eyes, he decides to finally say something:

“Choose a place you love.” Uh? The whole sentence takes me by surprise. The fact that he’s said something when he noticed I have no idea what to do and is trying to avoid another crisis like the one before the whole trip started takes me by surprise. I can’t answer fast enough, so my grandfather does for me. 

“There was a place I used to take him when I had the time, It’s a lake in front of an academy: I’m sure he must remember” 

I do: we used to go there on specially hard days just to let off some steam throwing rocks onto the water and feeling the wind on our faces. But there’s one detail I can’t recall since I haven’t been there in years.

“I do, and I do love that place: it’s beautiful and we used to go and talk and look at the water and… I don’t know how to get there.”

“Google maps?” Otabek hands his phone to my grandpa who looks absolutely puzzled as if he was staring at a piece of incredibly advance alien technology rescued from area 59 or something, “just move the map with your fingers, like this, and it will tell me how to get there.” 

I have to admit: he does look adorable trying to enlighten my grandpa in the marvelous uses of a smartphone. He barely learned how to skype just to call me and he refuses to try anything else, much less get a cellphone to text me. He still googles my name to get the YouTube videos of my programs even when I bookmark the actual YouTube page. I guess I’m too focus on them that I actually notice Beka’s talking to me a little too late.

“... hm? What?”

“Get ready, we’re leaving.”

“What? NOW?”

“Yes. I want to know the things and places you love and you did say you loved this lake so, let’s go.”

I get up to actually clean and brush my hair, for real this time, while he puts on some greyish sweater that doesn’t fit as tightly as the shirt underneath it, and drapes a scarf around his neck. I notice I’m staring through the mirror at the way his hands move down his sides to pull his clothes down and a bright red crawls onto my face all the way to my ears. Fuck. Why the hell I’m thinking about how revealing or not his outfit is? After all, a sweater can’t show any more than all that leather clinging so perfectly to his thighs. I wonder if it would hide an erection as little as it hides the beautiful shape of his ass.

Fuck.

Why the hell are you staring at your friend’s privates? Control yourself, think of something. Dive in face first in ice cold water until you stop either thinking about him or fucking breathing, this is getting too embarrassing. 

I wash my face AGAIN just to stop feeling the blush rising and get to my room to get a couple of hoodies and leave at once: maybe the wind on the speeding bike can make these thoughts go away. But we need to leave, and I need to leave before him so I don’t let myself have the chance to look down on him again. 

He’s gonna be sleeping with me for the next fucking five days and I can’t stop thinking at his hands on me, his breath gently running through my neck, sending shivers down my spine while he talks softly in my ear, his legs draped around mine, his husky moaned growl when I -I swear it was accidental- touched him…

That’s it, let’s go, let’s just go.

 

* * *

 

The streets are fairly uncovered by snow so Beka doesn’t chicken out on speed. 

It all looks completely different from this point of view: lights and white and colours flashing rapidly, not too fast to not discern them, but fast enough to not get bored of their presence. The cold grabs onto his jacket like morning dew so I keep my chest slightly separated from him, admiring the parks and the way the vivid green stands out, reaching under the suffocating layer of snow accumulated onto it from last night. 

He lowers his hand and places it on my thigh to get my attention despite the strong sound of the wind on our ears: I can’t help but blush at the intimate contact, but then again, it could also be the cold on on my cheeks, so I don’t worry much until i notice he’s offering me his hand. I’m getting really anxious now as I see him driving with only his right, even though we’re going on a straight line, so I rapidly place my hand in his and I feel him pushing upwards. 

Is he actually serious?

“Didn’t you want to know how was the view of your hometown from here? You told me so” he screams atop the sound of the speeding bike. 

“Who the fuck stands on a moving motorbike just a stupid view???!” i know I sound like i’m panicking, but well… I am. 

“I do. And text the pictures to you.” 

Seriously? That’s how those beautiful moving shots are made? I can feel my knees weaken, but I definitely have to try. 

I stand on the pegs and hold him by the shoulder, HARD, with my left hand while taking the phone out with my right; he moves his back to the handlebars with a sincere wide smile on his lips: he must be feeling my fingernails deep into his skin even through the leather and fabric, but he’s enjoying himself. I stand there in awe for just a second until I actually access to the camera on my phone: there’s no point in trying to do what he can in just one try so I prefer to film it all. 

We spend five minutes admiring the majesty of Moscow while the sun gets up and shines bright through the tall buildings. I’m completely dazzled by the view until a random driver shouts obscenities at us and only then Beka puts his hand on mine to tell me to sit down. 

Only then I realize I wasn’t even holding onto him anymore, not as tight as I was, and he was laughing wholeheartedly almost the whole way, probably at the face I was making, or maybe because he was honestly having fun. 

It takes barely a kilometer or two more to get to the lake finally, and we get off the bike; I don’t even check the end of the video before posting it on instagram. Fuck it, this is one of the best things I’ve ever done, I refuse to feel ashamed of how it actually looks. I just post the last minute of it, where you can see the actual water coming closer and the sun going higher, stopping just after the subtle smile reflecting on the rearview mirror, directly on Instagram.

 

Rediscovering my own city with @otabek-altin #changeyourPOV #sorrygrandpa #butmotorbikesareawesome #motorcycle #moscow

 

I don’t give a fuck about the notifications right now:I just take his hands and practically DRAG him until we reach the bridge.  You can see the people walking absentmindedly of the beauty around them, the tall building peeking out from behind the vast extension of green and blue underneath us, the noon sun shining bright onto the clear blue sky, making it all look like a fairytale painting, like a dream.

At the feel of his arm barely touching mine when we leaned on the rail a warmth grows on me from the inside out. I haven’t been this happy in a long time. Not “winning a competition, proving myself worthy happy”, just… Glad to be alive, no second thoughts whatsoever. 

“I wish today was my birthday” I don’t even realize when or why I said it, but I know he shifted subtly to look at me as if asking. “I can’t think how anything could be better than this day”

“Give me some time, I’ll think of something.” I can hear the smile on his voice without even looking at him, and I can’t help but bite my lip to repress to stupid grin trying to get out. He leans in closer to my ear and whispers softly. “Happy birthday, Yura.” I punch him in the arm jokingly just to make this knot in my chest vanish and notice the actual freezing cold creeping on me. 

  
  


“Let’s go in somewhere. Come, there was a coffee shop around here that made the greatest pastries EVER.” 

He chuckles and follows me, as always. We get in and start chatting as if we haven't been apart at all; he doesn’t say much, but he’s, as usual, really caring and completely honest, answering simply, even when I can see him calculating his words from time to time, and bluntly as he does. 

The waitress eventually gets back to let the check Beka had asked for and makes a particular comment, insinuating this is somehow a “date” and I get triggered in a second but try to remain as calm as I can, even when I know she can feel the glare. I can’t help but making a muttered comment about “how the fuck is a date anyways?”

“Hm?” Otabek looks at me, interested, laid back on the booth sit and brow arched up.

“What?” There’s something about his expression that makes me feel like there’s a question coming that I don’t really want to answer.

“You have never dated before?” There it is.

“Well… no… I have better things to do”, I try to seem cool and collected but I know he can see the bullshit in my eyes, “...I’ve never been really interested in anyone, really” _until you came along_. But let’s keep that part out of the way. Yet, curiosity strikes. And what do they say? Oh yeah… Curiosity killed the cat?, “have you?”

“Well.. yes. But that’s hardly interesting. Trust me.” WELL, NOW I’M FUCKING HOOKED.

“What do you mean with “before”?”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked if I’ve never dated _before_. Is… is this an actual date?” I get bright red just for asking and I’m waiting either for a burst of laughter or a slap on the face: you just don’t ask something like that. 

But none happen. 

“Oh. I guess not, I’m not sure… Every date I’ve ever had was definitely not as fun and interesting as this, so either it isn’t or I’ve being doing them wrong all this time.”  I know he’s serious and all, but I can’t help but snort at his remark: soon we’re both laughing like  we’re completely alone in the world. He’s adorable when he laughs like that, open, careless. 

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” the question just pops up and I cover my mouth with my hands the second I say it. Does he know now that I was staring at the way his mouth twitches upwards when he talks so confidently? He doesn’t seem embarrassed by it, though: he looks actually amused.

“Well… yes. I had a girlfriend.”

“OH.. I see...” Fuck. Did that sound offended? Hopeless? Why would it? What the hell, man? Control yourself. “I’m…”

“Don’t be sorry. It was some time ago, and I was just trying to distract myself. We both were. I guess we were lonely: neither of us really care too much about the other. We were fifteen, at some point I guess I felt obligated to like someone.” 

“So, you didn’t love her?” Again, man, way too fast, way too desperate. Get a fucking grip.

“I didn’t, not like that.” There’s a question hanging on my mind but I won’t let that one slip. It’s seriously none of my business. Seriously. “It’s getting dark out” 

I just notice we’ve been here for HOURS talking. We’ve done that already but on videochat alone, and there I was almost sure he couldn’t notice me focusing on each one of his gestures, they way his eyes change when he looks at someone else and then fall on me again, the way he touches the curve of his lip with his finger when he’s thinking of something. He takes my hand to put some money on it, “I’ll get the bike, pay the bill and I’ll meet you outside, ok?” 

He doesn’t even give me time to get what he said when he gets up without letting my hand go, looks subtly back to the waitress that seems to has never stop staring at our table, and leaves, letting my hand fall languidly; she starts gossiping to her coworkers before walking straight towards me. That’s it, bitch, you’re not getting any tip, fuck you. I check what he left me and put the other half of the total for our meal on her hand before walking out and finally checking the notification on my phone. 

 

@IceCastleProd  _ I’m so happy you’re having a good time! Be careful with those! _

@Pichit-chu  _ Is that a smile on the stoic hero? You can work magic! _

@Katsuki-yuuri  _ You too are so cute hanging out together! _

@v-nikiforov  _ you’ll have to come by and introduce your friend to us, you know ;) _

@yuri-plisetsky  _ you know him from longer than I do, WTF do you mean? _

@v-nikiforov  _ the guy I’ve met on the podium didn’t even know how to smile, yours looks like an angel _

@mila-bara  _ are you sure it’s a different person and you weren’t just being a bit of a dick? Just saying… (heart emoji) _

 

Well, thank you, Mila. 

She really meant the whole “being around if you need me” thing. I’m just glad at this point that Beka doesn’t check his notifications often and just erases them. 

I finally look up to see him , helmets in hand and thumbs on his leather pants’ pockets, watching me frown at my phone, leaning on his bright black motorcycle, with the sunset on his back, like something out of a fucking postcard. 

That’s it: he smirks at me when he sees me lifting my phone to take a photo of him, and just wait patiently for me to go to him and settle down on the bike to leave. During the travel back I put my forehead against his back and my knees slightly up to hold myself while I post the picture and even then I linger a bit on it: there’s a sneaky, almost lewd glint on the side of his eyes, and a half smile plastered on his face, looking straight at the camera, straight at me, the twilight makes every  curve of his bike shines, every fold of his pantsDAMN IT HERE WE GO AGAIN. 

I click publish and just hold onto him, hard, hands and knees, as if his actual presence was a lifeline to prevent me from drifting away, and lean my head against him, listening to his calm heartbeat for some reason beating faster. 

Must be the rush of the motorcycle. 

 

* * *

 

Grandpa scolds us softly when we get home for not letting him know we were gonna be out for so long, but lets it go quickly. We go to change and straight to bed, completely exhausted for today’s trip and I realize my face almost hurts from smiling so much. He puts on some loose gym pants and the same shirt he had on the damn plane pic, although in real life it looks much more worn out and slightly transparent in some places, and I go for the weirdly loose shorts and a simple cat shirt.

“I remember that.” Uh? He chuckles at the expression of my face. “You were wearing that the first time I skyped you.” Oh. Fuck, he’s got some memory for details.

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure you could see my underwear at some point” I don’t know where did that came from, but it did get out before I could stop it. I glare at him, or try to, just to hide the fucking shame. He laughs.

“Yeah, I could… Is that a bad thing?”

“Do you know what kind of underwear a lot of friends of yours wear?”

“There’s not many of them really..” I see, we are alike after all, “but I used to, of the ones I slept next to, at least. It happens when you get a roommate. At some point people stop putting on pants for breakfast.” At this point I can’t stop the weird snorting and start cracking up. What a fucking dork.  

We get into the bed, together for some reason, and he gets up on his elbow to look at me. There’s a not so uncomfortable silence, but it feels more intimate than it should, so I feel the need to break it somehow.

“Have you fucked her?” NOT LIKE THAT, DAMN IT.

“Excuse me, what?”

“NOTHING, NOT MY PROBLEM, I’M SORRY.” He smiles, amused at my face, for sure. Fuck, I need to stop doing that.

“Are you jealous?” HE EVEN DARES TO MOCK ME. THE FUCKING PRICK.

“Just forget it…”

“No…” 

“Dude, please, just…”

“I haven’t.” Oh. he was actually answering my question, really? “I didn’t care enough for her. A random attraction to someone is not a good enough reason for it.”

“It’s enough for me..” Bullshit in my eyes, he can see it, I’m sure.  He knows already I haven’t dated, he knows I haven’t been with anyone ever. 

Please, it feels like he can read me like a fucking open book and for some weird motive I still try to lie to him. That’s definitely not what friends do. But then again, I don’t think friends stare at other friends’ backsides, don’t they? He looks away before answering.

“She left me before I could learn to like her, even if I did wanted her,” SHE left HIM? Wasn’t expecting that,”she wasn’t too keen on the idea of me liking someone else: especially someone that wasn’t even remotely close to me”

“So you do like someone.” I notice I just interrupted him, but at least I think I just sounded concerned this time. 

“Yeah. But it’s a one sided thing.”

“Please, you’re lovely and stupidly hot, how could it be?”

“Am I now?” That’s it, this is a great moment for the earth to just crack in half and bury me down. Fuck fuck fuck. I need to fix this somehow so I just blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.

“The literal word Mila used was 'mancandy.'” I look away just for him not to dare ask what was the context of it. Yeah, I was jerking off to your image and when I commented it to her, as you do, she said I had a point, cool, uh? Not happening. Nope. 

“Did she?” He looks actually thoughtful. “I heard a good number of things, but that one’s new”

“Is it? What do they say about you? I know i’m pretty fucking sick of my nicknames…” 

“Trust me, it gets worse after you’re 18”

“Uh? Why would it..”

“Because there are a number of things that become legal then. So they make sure you know about them.” OH. well, curiosity spiked. I get closer out of habit and realize I can feel his warm breath on my face, sweetened by the hot chocolate he ordered back at the shop.

“What do they say about you?” he laughs uncomfortably: he’s not one to dirty talk, uh? Interesting. I mean, because now I know how to embarrass him after the thousand of reasons I gave him to embarrass me. We’re a bit closer to even.

“You’re gorgeous,” He pauses: he’s looking straight at me, and I can see his eyes shuffling down to my lips to shot up again, almost hoping I didn’t catch it. He blushes a bit, maybe because of it or maybe because I am too, furiously, “and you have a pretty, I’m sorry to say it, obsessive fanbase. You’ll notice what I mean sooner than later, I’m afraid.”

I freeze in the spot, I need to kiss him like that, lips slightly parted and bright, cheeks blushing up, eyes gleaming like a fucking sunrise, the breath catching in his throat, so close to me, so damn close… I bury my face on the pillow instinctively, just to stop it all.   
“You can’t just say that, Beka!”

“I’m sorry, but you know they’re intense; I‘ve had to rescue you from them..”

“Not that, you dork!” Every time he plays dumb my heart starts beating faster just at the prospect of having to spell it out for him. Cheeky bastard. 

“Oh? But I’d never lie to you, Yura; I kind of have to.”He’s blushed, sure, but that seems to be about it. 

How come saying something like that can happen so naturally for him? I lift my face from the pillow just to reply a short “you don’t have to be so blunt about it!” and hide again. At this point I feel every drop of blood in my body is rushing to my cheeks. Fuck. I feel a weight shift on the mattress and uncover myself just a bit to see he’s lied down, looking at the ceiling.

“Do I make uncomfortable?” He sounds doubtful, like regretting he’s ever come here, and I just can’t have that.

“No! Yes! I mean no, mostly…. Shit” 

He chuckles but doesn’t take his eyes off the ceiling: he’s trying to stay away from my personal space, it is kind of adorable. At some point. I guess. 

I turn my head around so I can see his expression; after all, I am curious. “I really enjoy hanging around with you and today was really special,” a half smile appears subtly,”don’t you dare look at me,” he shakes his head softly to let me know he won’t, “but the flirting is...weird”

“Hm?”

“You know what I mean…”

“I’m not even looking at you, you’ll have to be specific”. At this point the sweet smiles becomes a smug look. Fucking bastard.

“It… Does things. New things. To me. And I don’t know how to feel about that.” That’s it. I’m not telling you exactly what your leather pants, or you morning hard on or your fucking _moan_ does to me, be happy with THAT.

“See, here’s the thing, Yura…” He waits for me and the impatience just makes me loom over him to see why the fuck isn’t he finishing the sentence.” I don’t flirt.” He looks at me stoic, completely serious. He’s not joking, he’s really bad at it, you can always notice he’s laughing. 

But COME ON, he winked at me before shutting off a videocall, how would you call that?

“You flirted a little.”

“OK, let’s say I did… Do you want me to stop?” 

YES, I want everything my body does when I see you to stop, but that’s not entirely up to you. Sure, you don’t fucking help, but fuck, I have stared at a silly pic of a guy about to sleep on a plane like it was the image of a greek god or something. Damn it, that’s not exactly flirting, is it? And then no, it feels weird, and awkward, and new, but it’s also warm, and exciting, and… Well… Sexy. That’s not good actually, but it feels nice. If I actually get a chance to close the deal, I mean.  Fuck, make up your fucking mind! 

I bury my head on the pillow again and my words come out muffled.  “I don’t know what I want” 

“Well, while you don’t know, i’ll just continue to do what _I_ want instead.” I feel the shifting again and his shadow over me, hot breath tickling the skin behind my ears, “Goodnight, Yura.”

“...Dork.” I'd love to keep on fighting him, but the tiredness of my muscles finally gets to me. 

I’m not letting him out of this, though. I haven’t lost just yet.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a strange, unfamiliar, yet soothing warmth besides me, enveloping me. Waking up is tough, I don’t want to let this sensation go, but I have to open my eyes, I can’t stay in bed for a minute longer. 

When I do I notice the pillow my head is still resting in is draped over his arm; I don’t dare to turn around just yet, trying to remember everything about last night, waking up enuogh to understand every sensation, every touch. I can feel his calm breath over my head, his broad chest against my back, his arm hanging loosely from my waist, without any effort to grab me, his legs barely touching my own, a throbbing pulse passing through the thin fabric of my shorts. 

Shit. 

I shouldn’t make one move, just let him wake up and realize what he’s doing: he’ll get out quickly enough. Just let it go. Or get a bit further, just an inch, he’s not even that terribly close. But then again… Fucking curiosity. 

I move my hips barely a bit backwards, just barely, and if he’d have been wearing those really thick jeans he wouldn’t have hold his breath for a second, he wouldn’t have clenched his hands, gripping my shirt in the process, he wouldn’t unfold his legs just a bit and allow me a better access. He wouldn’t have let out that single, jagged, animalistic, LOUD groan, clenching his teeth and relaxing again, all in just a feeble moment. He wouldn’t let out a barely audible whimper when I move away enough so he couldn’t feel my body besides him anymore. Fuck. 

My face looks completely flustered on the bathroom mirror, even damped in cold water, trying to calm the need, the fucking need. I let the water running, just to hear something else in my head than that damn noise. 

I could almost feel the purring against my back. I can almost see his hand taking both my own in a death grip over my head. I can almost feel his fingernails running roughly through my skin, leaving trails he traces down in soft kisses that becomes all teeth and growling and hunger in a second. I can almost feel his shadow looming over me as he looks at what the sole idea of him can do to me. I can almost feel the cheekiness, the arrogant smile as if he can hear me, as if he knows what could I be doing alone, while everyone else is still asleep, locked in the bathroom, arm against the mirror and eyes closed, and guilty, oh so fucking guilty.

I can almost feel the tongue caressing his lips while he watches me, a finger barely tracing the oh so sensitive tip of his cock, letting out those feral groans through his teeth, staring like I’m the next prey to catch, but not making one move about it. I can almost see him with the eyes of a starving predator, hunting me down, thrusting his hips against his hands as I do on my own, faster as his growling becomes dominant in my ears and I can barely, just barely, listen to my own voice trying to repress the wailing climbing out of my throat as my hips finally get quiet, legs quivering and an already too familiar sensation covers my hand. I open my eyes to look upfront at the mess I’ve become, all flustered and panting, hot breath against the cold surface of the mirror and a sentence I can’t seem to forget.

_ I like it when you lead. _

You shouldn’t ask the tiger to show you their teeth, Beka. 

  
  


I can hear a rustle from the other side of the door: someone is awake. I’d better clean this fucking mess. 

But I won’t let it go. Not anymore.

 

* * *

 

I go back to my room to see the guy still sleeping, now on his stomach, hugging the pillow under his face, covers half thrown into the floor, half entangled around his legs: for the particularly quiet person he is while awake he does move a LOT during the night. 

It's actually endearing, the way his hair sticks up in weird angles and falls in loose strands over his brows, his lips pouting against the soft fabric. I’m sorry but I just have to share it, seated on the floor right in front of the bed, even though the picture doesn't come out just right without the flash on. And I have just one person that won't judge me for it… as much.

**“I’d be blessed if I could wake up to such a vision on my bed (heart emoji) what's with the ass sticking up? Does he always sleep like that?” F** or some reason the dim light got caught mostly on the curves of his limbs and the arch on his back, lingering on the exposed waistline, popped up and kissed by the dim dawn light. And of course, she had to grab onto THAT detail.

**“Wanker.” L** et's not give her the chance to ask why am I not in bed with him.  **“He doesn't sleep in one way: he moves and rolls constantly.”**

**“Cute! That explains the massive bedhead. You know what kind of people do that?”**

**“Don't play the mysterious card”**

**“Cuddlers (heart emoji)”** It’s not like two out of two nights I’ve slept with I’ve woken up to him holding me. 

**“Don’t start again, баба”**

**“Why? Are you with company?”** She’s ruthless, but somehow it’s not the kind of teasing that puts me on my nerves: she’s trying to be supportive, after all. Still being the bitch she is.  **“have you checked your Instagram yet? Brace yourself before doing so.”** Uh? I just realized I’ve never even looked twice at the picture of him leaning on the motorcycle, cheeky smile and daring gaze and all. He has smiled for his instagram photos before, but not like that: not with the smirk that can ignite every fibre in your body in a second, not dressed to kill, not like he does when he looks at me. I have to see now; it’s stronger than me.

 

_ Motorbikes are cool and you can’t tell me otherwise #motorcycle #moscow #nightfall  _

 

@IceCastle-Prod  _ amazing shot! I’ll call you on your birthday, ok? _

@Christophe-gc  _ looks like a pro photoshoot. Lookin’ good, Altin _

@Sara-crispino  _ Am I the only one whose knees are shaking right now? _

 

After the few names I actually recognize there’s a bunch of Angels either swooning over our “date” or blatantly threatening him for being around me, and a whole other number of people, mostly girls, that I have never seen on my Instagram before, posting from straightforward though essentially not so crude comments, as “ _ is this how a spontaneous orgasm feels like?”  _ to pretty blunt, specific opinions about every detail from his smug expression to the tightness of his pants. 

So this is what you meant, uh? I have to say, Mila’s comments do feel innocent in comparison to these. And she doesn’t fucking mention a leather kink at the very least. What the hell is wrong with people? How can they post something like this about ANYONE, much less on a public forum; what are they expecting? A reply from him because “his comment was so fucking inspiring”? Seriously, what the fuck? 

“You’re frowning.” I lift my gaze ready to scowl at the world to see him, head dangling out of the bed already, but with the pillow still held tightly under his broad chest. “It’s way too early to frown, even for you.”

“Are you underestimating my skills?” I try to joke but it only come out as bitter: I just wanted to share the beauty I saw with the world and they MOCKED it. How dare they.

“What is it.” He holds his hand out, asking for my phone. “Show me.” He realizes I don’t want to by the way I hesitate. I’ve never stopped him for checking anything. In fact, I tried to make social media more fun for him, so I could see his face more often, but it didn’t really worked. 

He did become really keen on texting pictures of random landscapes and cats, and sometimes even him. Rarely, but still. I really don’t know what to do about all these wankers on my photo. I just have to give in. He takes the phone, tries to read it and stop to rub the sleep out of his eyes before trying again. Funny how that subtle motion that everyone does makes him look younger, adorable, and my heart start pounding fiercely again, this time not because of the rage within me. “I told you: I don’t like social media.” He hands the phone back. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, are you alright?” I’m incredibly surprised at how you calm be so calm about this. And so direct in every comment.

“You mean this has happened to you before?” I know I sound exasperated, but the THINGS the strangers said they’d do to him, online for all to see, carefully detailed… Who wouldn’t be?

“Not so much online though, but I know the anonymity can bring out the worst in someone.”

“You mean people actually TALK TO YOU LIKE THIS? That’s fucking disgusting.” And I thought viktor openly flirting was, but at least he’s in a consensual relationship. At least they’re aware of each other’s existence. At least they’re even LOOKING AT EACH OTHER. Seriously, how could you do such a thing?

“It is, and they do. They did. In the States, mostly. Apparently, that’s what people do over there, besides cringing at the sound of your obviously foreign name and misspelling it.” He chuckles when I gag at him and keeps going, just to make it lighter for me: “If I had kept a list of everything strangers ever said about me, I’d have a full encyclopedia written about my ass. At least they’re consistent.”

That’s it: the snorting that comes out of me is disgraceful and the laughter starts to raise up until I feel like my sides hurt and I can hardly breathe. Still, I give him a side look as if I were about to make a comment when I get to actually stop myself from laughing like a fucking maniac and he raises a brow at me: 

“Have you been looking? That’s not polite, you know…” There’s still a trace of the laughing fit on my lips but it suddenly stops when he said that, even though I can see he’s mocking me. 

I need to tell him I don’t, I wouldn’t, I definitely do not feel like worshipping the person who invented skinny jeans in the first place.

“Would you prefer me to ask politely first?” That is one way of doing the exact opposite of what I intended. Fuck. Focus. 

“Well…” He pauses and bites his lip to stop his grin from forming: it doesn’t work, it just makes him look even more appetizing. “...I’d really rather you not to do that, it would be seriously awkward. Let’s not. Please.” Now it’s the turn of his low subtly chuckle to gradually become a deep loud belly laugh he tried to choke burying his face deep into the pillow and I get sucked into it in a second: soon we’ll both aching all over, eyes watering, desperately gasping for air as we turn to look at the door to the bedroom, always open as he asked, to see Grandpa standing there, a soft frown on his brow.

“I’m really glad you’re having such a good time waking up the whole building. Could you tone it down now, please, boys?” I turn to Beka to try and mouth an apology but I freeze on the spot the moment I see him: teary glimmering eyes looking up from the bed, a terrible case of bedhead and an open wide smile he’s trying too hard to hide under the pillow rolled on his arm to no avail. He mutters a shy “yessir” looking up at him, and… Are those puppy dog eyes? Really now? Grandpa actually falls for them, because honestly, who wouldn’t, and lets us know he’ll be out all day for a back adjustment session or something like that, to glares at us one more time before actually turning around and leaving. 

As soon as I hear him close the door, I get up and offer my hand to my friend, but he grabs me by my arm and throws me face first into the bed, right beside him. 

“Let’s _not_ get up.” I wanna bitch at him but the softness on his voice and the small pouting of his lips stop me.

“What are you planning on doing all day on the bed?”

“Well….” he nods at the console gathering dust in the corner of the room,” Rematch, maybe?”

 

* * *

 

“What are we betting this time, Yura?” He sits up at the feet of the table to turn on the device and prepare the game while I just watch him from the back; if he’s aware of my eyes follow every move of the muscles of his back, hardly hidden under the tattered shirt, he doesn’t make a sign to let me know it. 

“Grandpa’s gonna be back in the afternoon, so… Lunch?”

“Sure.” He sits back in the middle of the bed and gestures me to take the controller from him.

“Nah, you go first”, I shrug and drape myself over his shoulders, trying to ignore the way my heart beats like it’s gonna burst out of my chest. His hands seem to stiffen on the keys.

“It’s not so easy with a person hanging from your back, you know.” His voice sounds softer, almost shaky; I refuse to let him hear the trembling mess my own must be at this point, feeling the hot touch of his skin against my chest. I cross my arms around his shoulders and bury my face on his back. He barely trembles a little at the first contact of my breathing on his skin, but straightens up his back and looks right to the screen,  completely rigid and concentrated in the game. He doesn’t even reach half the first lap when I notice his shoulders jerk involuntarily up if I breath on the back of his neck softly. I wonder… 

I take my hand up and back, tracing down his spine, barely touching him, “That’s cheating, Yura…” He says, his voice turned into a soft, almost broken murmur; I keep on going until the hem of his shirt, and under it, going back up along his sides. His voice gets louder and more demanding, like if he knows what I’m planning. “Put your claws away, or I’ll do it for you, котенок ”

“Do NOT. Call me. KITTEN.” I rapidly brush my fingertips again the sides of his waist and feel him notoriously flinching as he throws the controller away to turn and pull himself at the side of the bed, eyes wide in surprise, yet a smile dancing on his lips. “Look at that, the stoic hero of Kazakhstan is ticklish?”

“How do you want me to call you then, Ice Tiger of Russia?” Oh, I can think of a few names, but that’s a good place to start. Specially with the smug taunting tone of his.

“That’s a good one to begin with; we’ll need to work on your tone though.”  I can feel my tongue dancing unconsciously along the sharp edges of my teeth when I smile at him, like a predator ready to strike, and he tilts his head barely to a side, waiting for me. 

I don’t make him wait for too long, launching at my attack when I notice one of his arms along the back of my knees, pushing my legs up and making me fall flat back against the mattress; by the time I try to get up he has already straddled me, even with a bit of room to move under his hips, both of my hands held against one of his above my head.

That’s it: he smirks and I can feel the heat radiating from my body, going down, finding every little bit of skin his body’s touching. My breathing gets shallow out of panic or… And he just looks at me, like he’s trying to remember every detail of it, every hair out of place, every inch my shirt has shifted up on the way down onto the bed, every second my hips meet his on the wriggling to get out of his clutch. Fuck, the guy’s got some strong grip. Shit. 

“What was it about my tone, Kitten?” He says, the fingers on his free hand lacing onto the edge of my shirt, threatening to fall down on the sensitive part of my waist. This is gonna be bad. Fuck. 

“I’ll kick you so bad when I get out of this” I pull my legs to take them out of his grasp and he lowers his body hard onto me, pinning me completely, yet pulling his crotch away to avoid contact.

“You know, I was gonna let you be: I don’t like cheating but I can let it pass. Now, threats…” He starts scratching softly around the uncovered skin and I can’t help to burst out in laughter, “threats I just can’t let go.” 

“No-hohoho ple-ease, sto-hoho-p, beka!” At some point, the laughter becomes a sort of wailing, that becomes a hysterical squealing asking for help, and my hips pull up involuntarily; I’m so out of it, tears striking down my face and eyes completely shut, that I wouldn’t have noticed at all I actually rubbed myself against his groin if it wasn’t for the sudden stop of his punishment and the way he gasped to stop himself from moaning. I gaze at him and he’s towering over me, eyes closed, breathing deep to try and calm himself, and teeth clenched hard; an image that’s hard to forget.

So that’s what desire looks like in him. He takes his time before talking again, and this time his voice sounds like a feral growl, hungry, wanting.

“...Don’t do that.” Pause. He lifts himself away from me and gets up out of bed, raising a finger to me as if he were to speak at me, but not daring to actually look at me, yet he says nothing, just walks away and into the bathroom. I fucked up. Damm it.  

I can’t possibly know what is going on in there, but I do know for sure that no amount of cold showers are gonna erase that picture from my head, much less the sensation of his touch burning through my skin, his low needy voice vibrating through my chest, his hands on me, completely in control of every move I could make. I pull a hand down my stomach, towards that spot where he was practically sitting on barely a minute ago, not so soft to the touch now, gripping hard and hungry and desperately, while the other hand is trying to muffle any sound that could possibly get out of me, even though my mind hesitates between the need to hide it all and the perverse impulse of letting him hear it. 

Feeling the new, explicit sensation of his body against mine encourages my hand lower, exploring wearily past the point I’ve never dared crossing before; my legs slightly parting on their own, cooperating with the thirst that dominates me, the sound of him still clear in my ears. I know now letting it go is the only way to push this sensation of lack of air out of me, the only thing I can do to stop myself from fucking this up even further. And I don’t want him away, I couldn’t stand him away from me. 

My  rhythm becomes erratic, as I pull my hips up to allow better access and finally, barely, thrust in; a high pitched whimper trying to escape through my teeth shut tight around my own hand, as a wave of ecstasy washes over me, igniting every fiber of my body, sending shivers down my spine, arching my back so incredibly far above the mattress, forcing me to go back up and stroke myself roughly, violently, making my knees weak and shaky and my hand going from my mouth to my head, holding and pulling on my hair hard to stop it from going to my face. 

I start to panic as the fire builds up inside, trying to reach out, until my hips meet my hand for the last time and out of my throat only silence comes out; the bed makes a not so loud, but clearly notorious noise of springs squeaking under the weight of my body falling suddenly back down, and I try to wake up from the mist of climax to listen any changes on the sounds of the house.

The shower’s on and there’s nothing else, probably: the pipes are old and loud, clacking inside the walls to allow any other sound to come out. But then, probably not any sound could get in either. I remember some paper tissues I had around somewhere, and get up to clean and at least wash the filth off my hands and the lust off my face on the kitchen sink. 

I can’t even guess how much time I spend just staring at the water just running through when I feel a soft thud behind me. I can almost guess in which wall he has leaned on to stare at me, confident now that I’m not looking back. I guess we both can take refuge in that for now.

“Who takes care of lunch, then?” I try to laugh out the whole situation, even though I’m sure we can both guess what the other was just doing. He takes his time. It feels like torture. 

“You, of course.” He stands away from the wall and turns his back to me: “You cheated.”

 

* * *

 

I hardly know how to cook anything; instead I go out to fetch something from the tiny deli two blocks away. He looked frankly uncomfortable when I left, and I can’t really expect him to be any different, but there’s this void in my chest that tells me not to let him like this, distant, lonely. Not like this and not so far away from home. 

But I don’t even know what to say; he’s been there for me in so many stupid rage fits and made his best to make me feel I had someone to talk to no matter what, and now that I really should say something I have no idea how to do it. How do people do this? How does HE does it? I was hoping the cool air from the streets help think while I bring back home a brown bag of  чебурек for lunch. 

When I go back he’s sitting on the couch, his back turned to the front door, and he doesn’t even flinch when I arrive. I try to set the table as fast and as quietly as I can and take a few deep breaths to gather courage.

“Beka, come here.” He gets up and meets me the dinner table; I can see he’s trying to keep a straight facade but his eyes soften when I look at him.

“Yuri..”

“Don’t. Listen, I'm sorry…” And the courage is gone. Fuck. I feel the memory of it all, the shame, furiously showing in my face again so I hide behind my hands, “I was completely out of place, I should have just let you play, I didn’t think... I’m sorry…”

“You’re ranting.” His voice sounds particularly soft, of course: he must be incredibly embarrassed as well. “Stop.”

“I want you to feel comfortable around me again and I don’t know how to do that, how can you do that every time I need it and I have no idea what to say to you?”

“What do you want to say to me?” What kind of question is that? ANYTHING. Anything that can take this feeling that you’re gonna walk away at any time. 

“I need you to be comfortable again around me and I don’t know how to do that.” 

“Why?”

“What do you mean “why”? You’re my friend, you mean the world to me and I want you better!” I vomit the words as they pop up in my head out of sheer frustration, I’m not even exactly sure of why I said the thing I said, but I lift my head from my face just to look for a reaction, since I can’t hear a single thing out of him. He’s staring at me softly, elbow popped on the table and his chin resting on his hand, as he does when he’s listening intently. The next words just come out as a sight: “would you please say something?”

“That did made me feel better.” Huh? His lips twitch barely upwards and he looks away: “Do you think the things I tell you are only meant to make you feel good about yourself? Every word I say I mean it. I’m not looking for it to be perfect, I'm looking for it to be honest. If you weren’t honest with me just to make me feel better then I’d feel somehow betrayed. I wouldn’t want you to feel the need to lie to me, as I have never lied to you.” 

The hole in my chest is still there, but it’s different. Have I lied?  I have hidden, that’s for sure. But he hasn’t told me about his ex girlfriend until I specifically asked, so he has as well, right? Then, should I? Was Mila right all along? If she was I’m definitely not telling her that.

“The honesty I have to offer you won’t like.” 

“If it comes from you I will: anything you want to say, I’m here to listen.” I take a deep breath and the courage doesn’t come back, so I press my head down on the table and mumble from there, loud so he can hear me.

“IlikeyouandIliketobeclosetoyouandmymindgoesstupidwhenyou’rearoundand … i just... Don’t know…” It all comes blurting out, unintelligibly, but he seems to pick up enough of it.

“What you don’t know?’”

“... It’s weird. It’s not what Viktor feels, it can’t be, but it’s not how Mila feels about her so called friends either… I just don’t know” I let out a frustrated groan and can hear him chuckle, “and it’s not fucking helping, all of this, it just makes me kiss you even more than when I didn’t have the chance to touch you at all. I’d like a dive in that damn pitch pit now, if you don’t mind.” What the fuck is so fucking funny?

“I do mind, I’d miss you too much, I’ve told you that.” My heart skips a beat when I hear him say that but I keep with my forehead glued to the tabletop, just in case.

“You told me you wouldn’t strangle me. And that was before all of…” I gesture widely around me with lifting my head, and he starts to actually laugh. “THIS.”

“Yes, it was. But I’d still miss you.” 

“It sounds weird when you say it in a time like this.”

“Maybe, but it’s the truth.” I sit up and stare at him: he doesn’t seem to be lying, although I don’t think I have EVER seen him lying. So if he’d try really hard I probably wouldn’t notice. I just feel completely out of place: he’s still fidgeting under the table, I can see it in the way his shoulders move from time to time. He’s nervous, he’s either calculating his words or wanting to say something he’s not saying.

“Now that you know how I feel…”

“I don’t. You don’t.”

“FINE. now that you ROUGHLY  know how I feel even when I’m not sure of how to call it I have to ask,” His eyes widen slightly, waiting for the question: is he scared? I am too, to be honest, this day was a trainwreck from the minute I woke up, but we’re in this shit together now, so we better make the best of it. It takes a lot of guts to make the sentence come out as more of a terrified high pitched whimper: “do you want me?”

“Yura… You’re not even 16 yet.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Beka.”

“No it’s not.” He raised his voice, looking away, anywhere but my direction, his lips tightly pressed. He’s pissed. He’s never been pissed at me before. “Listen, I… The way I feel about you is much more than just that, it’s not that simple.”

“Fuck, it’s not that complicated, man, would you kiss me or not?”

“No.” That was a quick answer. Straightforward. Definitive. Damn it, I can feel my eyes water and I try to laugh it out so he doesn’t notice, but even then it’s so much stronger than me. The feel of betrayal, the knot on my stomach, the lump on my throat. Fuck. 

“Uh… i guess I just got it all wrong then.” I can hear him get up and trying to explain himself but if he does so much as touching me I feel I’m gonna shatter.” Just leave. Please. Just…” He doesn’t try to come any closer, just takes his jacket and scarf and leaves.

I noticed him lingering on the doorframe, maybe even looking at me, expecting me to regret it, to call him back, but it doesn’t last long; and when I finally hear the bike driving away I let myself fall, completely, sobbing loudly onto the wooden surface, raising my arms over my head, grasping my hair to control myself, with no avail. I’m sure every neighbour in the block can feel me bawling like a baby right now but so I feel so fucking empty and alone I don’t give a hist about any of them. The one good thing I could finally do on my own, the one person that could make he happy outside an ice rink  and I fucked it up. That’s it. Happy birthday to you, you fucking shithead, you ruined it.

There’s one person I know won’t judge me for it, and I’ve never said a word about it, but…

 

**“I need you.”**

 

* * *

 

**“Did something happen? I’m with the girls, do you want me to call you?”** Yuuko’s responses are mostly fast, and she’s always willing to encourage me no matter what I’m about to do. Even when I never make any personal comments to her, she feels the need to remind me she’s there for me. She’s the only one I know sane enough to say anything that makes sense; i could talk to my grandfather but if he hears I just had a fight with my guest over a, what, accidental grinding? He’ll kick him out. I don’t know if I want him to come back, but I sure as hell don’t want my grandpa involved in this. 

**“Get away from everyone. I need to talk. I fucked up big.”** She takes some good five minutes and I start wondering if she’s actually hiding from her triplets or she’s texting Katsudon to put him up to speed. As far as i know, she’s never said anything too personal to him about me, but then again, there haven’t been many too personal things I said to her in the first place, if not at all. Still, she texts back. She always does.

**“OK, I’m here, tell me anything you need.”** I don’t feel I can’t make justice to all of what happened if I simply type it. I try to control my breathing and record the whole situation for her, trying to avoid the specific contact on our bodies and his…. 

I can’t help but losing my grip so the one audio note becomes four since I had to interrupt the recording so he doesn’t hear me crying my heart out. An audio arrives and her voice seems really distressed, yet trying to be as comforting as she possibly can.

“ _ Are you actually crying so much? Yuri, I’m so sorry about all of it; but if you want to know what I think you should do you’ll have to trust, OK? Many heartfelt conversations feel like a jump onto the void, because they ARE, but if you want it hard enough, and you’re willingly to trust this friend of yours, then you have nothing to fear.”  _ I did my best to leave his name and gender, and anything that could tie the audio back to him, really, a secret, just in case. I don’t know what else to do but trust, really, every second since I got on that bike I have, and even when I feel I have been beaten down to pieces, I can’t stop thinking he deserves at the very least that. I text her an  **“OK”** and she’s swift this time.

**“Text him. Ask him if he’s willing to talk it out.”** Shit. I really don’t want to. Maybe he does, but what then? 

He’s gonna tell me I got it all backwards and he has no intention towards me? And maybe I stay besides him to see how he moves on, maybe another girlfriend, maybe even that crush of his, whatever, and I just stay there. Watching. 

Or maybe he decides this whole friendship thing was a bad idea after all, I’m not who he thought I was. I’m annoying, too absorbent, whiny, perverted, anything.. Just. Anything would feel like a bullet to my heart. But at least now I still have a couple of hours before Grandpa comes up and I’ll have to tell him my guest’s left so fast that he left his things behind because I want to fuck him and he didn’t agree with me. 

Fuck. I’m a fucking idiot. But she’s right: if I don’t talk it out i’ll never be sure of what’s going on on his mind. And we might end up throwing mixed signals at each other like two certain dumb fiancees. Well. here goes nothing.

  
  


**“May I talk to you?”** He replies almost instantly, as if he was waiting for my text all along.

**“Do you want me to get back?”**

**“I can’t look at you right now. Just… I need to know.”**

**“Then ask.”**

**“Why not?”**  And please don’t tell I’ve been wrong all along.

**“I can’t allow you to diminish what I feel about you because you’re fifteen and need to vent your sexual urges somehow. It sounds harsh but it is offensive to be treated like that. I’m sorry.”**

**“You’re not a hook up. You’re really important to me. I just don’t know how to word it, or what exactly that means. I just know that if you were to leave now to never talk to me again I’d get on the next plane just to kick your ass back.”**

**“I’m not leaving unless you want me to. You kicked me out, remember?”** I can’t deal with the frustration right now, I scream and cry to my phone just to not text anything I might regret. I'm a mess, I’m a broken disaster, I’m not who you want, this is not who you saw five years ago, I’m sorry.

**“I’m a sobbing bitchy mess. I don’t want you here. This is not what a warrior looks like.”**

**“Of course it is, you’re not hiding, you’re stepping out and facing it, aren’t you?”** Even now the little shit makes me smile and the tightness on my chest reminds me of the way he holds me, so sweetly. I need him holding me in his arms so bad right now, but when I’m about to mention it he starts recording a message that he keeps erasing and recording again. When he finally sends it, it’s surprisingly long:  _ “ _

_ Listen, Yuri. Everything I’ve done for myself, and my peers and my country, was because of you. Everything that makes me at some point a better human being than I was, came out of you, and your own strength, and my need to finally find you again, to thank you for showing up on my life so coincidentally in one of my lowest points just to carry me back up without even knowing it. I wouldn’t be half the person I am if it weren’t for you, and all I did it in part to be worthy of your company. I don’t care if you’ll never feel the same way I do about you, I just want to be there to see you happy. But please don’t make this feel trivial or look like a teenage crush because it’s not, and it’s too painful to hear how you just assumed I looked out for you because you’re beautiful. You are, but that can’t even begin to describe how precious you are to me.”  _ his voice sound soft, and broken up and shaky; he’s trying hard to keep up with his tough guy look even in an audio text, but I hurt him. I can hear it. I know he must feel just as heartbroken and empty and lonely as I do, but anything I could text would feel fony. 

_ “I’m sorry… I know I overreacted, I… I just want you back. Please… I won’t mention it again, i promise”  _  I know it sounds like i’m begging in between sobs, and it’s cheap and dirty, but it’s all I’ve got. I just miss him; I can’t stand the idea that he might decide I’m a bratty kid after all, and they were all right all along, and I’m not worthy of… All of that he said.  Of being that precious to him. 

He sees it, plays it, doesn’t answer. 

He doesn’t answer. 

I’ve just put my head on a platter and hand it to him and nothing happened. I’m an idiot. I’m a complete idiot. I honestly thought he was coming back just with it. I can’t say nothing like he does, I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’d love to know what this is, but it’s all just… New. Terrifying. Dangerous, apparently. Hurtful. Fuck. I suck at this. 

I want to go back. Back when his absence didn’t burn like this, back when I wasn’t so happy yet, when I hadn’t had someone to talk so openly about anything as I do with him, back when they were right in calling me a moody brat. Who would be there to call out on them, to prove them wrong? No one dared to even get close to me, no one but a warrior would. But some battles are just lost from the start, aren’t they?

 

It might have been 20 minutes since i threw myself into the couch, refusing to take my phone again just to not feel tempted to keep on listening to his audio note, when the doorbell rings. I rapidly try to wash my face the best I can; my eyes already got puffy and red and my head started pulsing a minute ago, there’s really no hiding it, but Grandpa would have to know sooner or later. 

I’ve never been good to people, but I’ve never had anyone to expect so much from me either: I was bound to disappoint him, sooner or later. I opened the door to find him standing there, a slight trace of red on his eyes, hands balling at his sides and his lips pressed tightly together: the Kazakh is an anxious mess and it shows in the way his voice softens and trembles. “Please let me in?”

I think I even took a stupid amount of time to process what he said and move back, not even to the side so he can actually come inside, just, back. He slams the door shut and takes in his arms in one swift move, my back colliding against the hallway door harshly, but the pain in my back doesn’t matter. He’s back, and just feeling him around me, the warmth of his body hiding the tears already threatening to escape again. I know he can barely hear me between my voice cracking and his chest practically covering my whole face but it’s just necessary.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, i missed you, don’t ever leave me again…” I can feel him shushing me and stroking my hair, taking one hand to lift my chin up and kiss my tears away, pressing his lips against my forehead before holding me tight again and leaning over to whisper in my ear.

“I love you, Yura. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me too.” All I can give in response is a tight hug around his waist and a wide smile buried against the dampness of his sweater. 

I’ve never felt more alive.

 

Grandpa arrives close to dinnertime with a tired expression and a bag of not so fresh pastries from the close to decent bakery close to the doctor’s private office to find a nest of entangled limbs and silly laughter splattered on the couch as we play, half asleep, poking and tickling each other in short and calculated motions so we don’t push each other onto the floor. there’s still the bag from the deli, greased up and empty, on the rug next to us and, of course, a scowl on the old man's face.

“Yura! Have you been eaten on the couch?” I feel  Beka’s hands on my shoulders as he holds me so I don’t fall off every time my grandfather yells at me. “Get up and clean this mess right this instant! You should know better than to leave your dirt all over the floor, boy, you’re gonna be sixteen tomorrow, for goodness’ sake!”

I get up on my ass so fast even Otabek was impressed, and start picking up used napkins and glasses sticky from the sugary soda sprawled all over the living room: they weren’t too many things, but somehow I did make a huge disaster out of it and he didn’t even stop me. “Beka, you were supposed to be the organized one, do your job!” I shout widely in direction to the kitchen where he’s making coffee; he only answers when he’s finally back with a cup in his hand for Grandpa. 

“I’m the organized one, but that mess is all yours.”

“You’ve eaten with me!” 

“And i handed every little thing to you; you tossed it all away.” He’s not even smiling now, but that smug face he does when know he’s won the battle, again, makes me feel he’s fucking cracking up inside. At my expenses. And of course, Grandpa laughs as well. 

“Well, I’m really glad you boys get along so well, and thank you for the coffee. It’s been such a long day…”

“That it has.” Beka’s tone doesn’t sound bitter or defeated as I would have expected, but relieved. It’s all over now. We’ve talked it out. 

We don’t bleed out from our wounds but grow from them, learn from them. And honestly? Now that he’s said all he’s said on that audio note, he seems much more relaxed. Happy. 

I’m glad.

  
  


Something starts to make a notorious racket somewhere around the couch and I recognize the noise: it’s a Skype call. From inside the fucking couch. 

The phone must have slipped through the cushions while they were cuddling, and touching each other not flirty, not sexual, just… Nice. 

I  remember the hand softly running through my hair down to the nape of my neck and onto my arm so our fingers could lace together as if they belong intertwined in the first place. Until he reaches and strokes softly under my arm with his other hand in a swift move, making me squeal like a fucking pig and use both our hands still pressed together to hit him on the waist while he laughs at me. The cheeky bastard. 

He went to the room and back to get my own laptop ready on the coffee table, just as he does at his own home, I recall, and waits for me to actually unlock it since I’ve never given him the password. I still can’t find the damn fuckin phone. Shit. “Just put on the date I adopted Anje and help me!”. He unlocks it and sits me down by the shoulders in front of it; there’s two missed calls and one currently ringing on Skype, and according to Japan’s time zone, it’s March already.

I answer and three round grinning faces on the screen.

“Happy birthday Yurio! Best wishes! Who are you with? Show us!” At the first scolding from their mother, the girls run to hide behind her.

“I’m really sorry, but I wanted to say hello. Happy birthday, Yuri!”

“Thanks Yuuko. And thanks for…. Just. You know.” She smiles so sweetly I feel like a toddler again. There’s something inherently warm about her.

“Are you alone?”

“Oh, no!” I look up and I can see you can’t see Beka sitting on the floor besides me so I turn the whole laptop at him, “this is my best friend, he came to spend my birthday with me.”

“OH MY GOD IS THAT OTABEK ALTIN; THE HERO OF KAZAKHSTAN? YOU’RE FRIENDS WITH HIM? COULD YOU BRING HIM TO THE ONSEN?” I look at him and he just looks puzzled, waving at three excitable kiddies on the screen.

“I don’t know, would you?” He just shrugs: the onsen is fine, after all, if you take away all of the really loud people in it. “Would you? Would you dare to face the TRIPLET MENACE OF THE ICE CASTLE?” He looks at me like i’m actually speaking japanese when Yuuko’s voice comes out of the laptop, loud and reprimanding: 

“I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING MY DAUGHTERS A MENACE!”. At this point he just pauses and starts chuckling at me, without giving as much as a glance to the camera. I can hear the praises to his beauty from the children from where I’m sitting so I drape my arm over his shoulder and sit besides him, pulling him into a hug.

“Watch it, girls! No fooling around with my friend.” He looks down at me, still smiling, and the playful smile on my lips somehow changes enough for me to realize I’m biting the rim of my lip to stop me from closing the distance between us. 

We said we wouldn’t, I know why we won’t. Control yourself. There are children present, damn it. Fuck. THOSE children. I better stop giving them anything they can upload online. “Well, I have to go rest for my birthday on my actual time zone.”

“I mean it: if you wanna come by, we’ll make you some room at home and you can use the rink whenever you want.” She’s all smiles and motherly warmth while her girls wave goodbye all around her, impossible to keep quiet.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks. Really” I shut it off and Beka looks at me. He wants to ask but I’m not telling him. Not just yet. I’d rather just have a quiet dinner and go to bed.

Grandpa is exhausted so we make it quick to bed: we lay together, my head resting against his chest, right above his heart, while he pulls me close by my waist and knots our legs together. I can hear his tranquil heartbeat clearly, as if it were my own. 

“Say it again.” I wanna sleep listening to it.

“Mh?” He’s dozing off already, his voice low and husky and pulsing on his throat.

“Say it again.” 

“Yura..”

“Please?” 

“Don’t beg. It doesn’t suit you.” I’m about to pout when I realize he can’t actually see my face; still he concedes: “Мен сені жақсы көремін”

“Huh?”

“You damn little earthquake”, he snickered, “I love you.”

“Goodnight , Beka.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and сырники and a hand brushing my hair out of my face: there he was, his eyes gleaming yet drowsy, fixated on me as his hand moves to gently stroke my cheek. I don’t want to tell him to stop but it feels way too intimate for whatever it is we’re doing here. He has marked the limits himself but keeps on stepping on the line. Yesterday it was the relentless touch and poking and tickling: all in good fun, of course, why else? But this feels like a scene cut out from a sappy shitty sunday morning TV romance, if it weren’t because his moves didn’t feel as sexy or hungry as they feel lazy.

“You’re not even awake, aren’t you?”

“Not fully. Happy birthday, Yura.” His mouth barely twitches up when he says it, and the puppy eyes show up again: I remember that look because it's exactly the way a certain moronic skating legend looks at his better half every time they get more than two seconds together. I just hope he’s not willing to do all the excessive PDA for the cameras and the matching outfits to skate together and… Ew.

But he’s not that kind of an idiot. He’s the sort of guy who wouldn’t touch you unless you specifically ask to, or won’t give a spectacle for the cameras, but he’d send corny texts and honest compliments, and think of you in the most subtle ways. He’s the kind of idiot who wouldn’t put his love up on a billboard unless specifically asked to. He’s the kind of idiot who falls in love with a bitter bratty teen with his head up in the clouds, way too full of himself to realize what the fuck is going on up there. And I’m perfectly fine with it.

But he’s still an idiot.

“You know it doesn’t make sense for you to say that while keeping me from actually getting up, right?” three out of three nights spent sharing a bed with him, I end up facing the wall opposite to the doorway, so I’d have to literally climb over him to get up, and his arm is now resting on the crook of my neck, tracing soft little circles going to my collarbone and up, sending shivers down my spine and a particular feral hunger that fantasizes about biting his skin blue from his chest down to his hipbones until the growling passion overcomes the sweetness in his eyes.

“I’m not getting up until you do.”

“You never get up early. And you’re in the way.”

“Don’t care.” He smirks and rolls over until half his back is flat against the mattress, half hanging out of it. Fucking small bed. I like his smirking, but not quite what it does to me: he should know better than to just let me do what I please at this point, but he’s too sleepy to actually realize what he’s getting into. I’m not stepping out of the line, after all: a friendly remark here and there isn’t that bad, is it?

I make a motion as if to step over him to leave but straddle him instead, legs around his waist, and let my weight fall on my hands at both sides of his head. He’s cornered me before, it’s only fair, isn’t it? He seems to be trying hard not to push me down, shutting his eyes tight and his head back down into the pillow, teeth softly gnawing at his lips to calm himself and a forced steady breathing. “Don’t. Tease me. Yura.”

“I’m not teasing, Beka. I could always sit lower on…”

“See, THAT. That is… lethal. Stop.” his voice is a jagged murmur trying to sound tough and definitive but failing miserably. I know a single brush of my fingers would make him either whimper, asking me to get off of him, or hold me tight in place and push me down. But I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn't.

Specially with Grandpa obviously awake and the bedroom door always open, since Beka is such a good, obedient child.

Then again, I don’t really have to. Two can play this game.

“The thing is… I kinda liked the growl you made when I touched you.” Good, I tried to be sexy and went on straight honesty and “I dream about your voice” creepy shit. Good job. I deserve a fucking award.

“Funny.” He snickers as if he has something more to say. But every time I barely shift my body or clench my thighs just a little bit his teeth press tightly together to stop the moan he can barely chokes back down. I can feel it in his jagged breathing, he’s either gonna be really horny, or really pissed, or both.

I take his chin in my hand to make him look at me: now I need to know what he has to say. “You meow when you get a particularly vivid dream”; his half smile goes wide and smug as he see a whole new tone of bright red crawling to my face. Fuck. do I talk in my sleep? “And move. A lot.” I want to be subtle, flirty, win this round. Fuck, every little thing in him, every little patch of skin showing up, every inch of him touching me, sending an impossibly hot sensation to every inch of my body, every little twitch of his lips, and flip of his tongue, and gleam in his gaze… That’s not sleepiness anymore. That’s desire.

But I’m stronger than this. I’m stronger than him.

“You know what? Fuck you.” Newsflash: I’m not. Shit. Seeing him so desperately wanting and not being able to fucking touch him. Damn it.

You’re lethal, Beka. You play with fire and know exactly when to take your hand out before the heavy blisters come; I just throw myself into the bonfire.

I get up off him, trying to pathetically hide my hard on in some impossibly tight black pants and just launch for the bathroom, stopping right behind the bedroom door; I check on him just to see if I’ve most definitely lost this round. Once he finally thought I was out of earshot, he let out a long painful groan, pushing his hard down on his crotch and turning to face the window. Blue balls are tough, huh? Let’s call it a tie.

 

* * *

We eventually get to have an actual breakfast, and Grandpa is just so incredibly excited he looks he’s about to tear up at any second; I manage to put on some not too skinny jeans and a hoodie, just in case he DARES mention anything about my outfit from before the moment he finds a second alone to mock me. Yet, he doesn’t go safe, the fucker, stupidly tight ripped jeans and leggings underneath, because it’s cold out, of course, (not like he’s trying to show off his assets out of spite and decided to wear something so not suitable for winter) and a black shirt under a fitted black hoodie, translucent around his torso,sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s trying to get my attention. And he’s definitely doing it. Shit. I suddenly remember the crush Mila had on him. And the fact that I might or might not have mentioned it to him in order to hide my own… impulses. I feel the need to remind her she’s not allowed to say one word out of place, no matter how hard it is for a shit talker like her. I let them to talk about the city and what places to visit to send text from under the table: it is really a good thing that they get along so well.

**“Watch it tonight.”**

**“Good morning kitty (heart emoji). What about tonight, is something special happening? Aaalso, check your Instagram hun. Tons of birthday messages for you.”** Yeah, it happens every year in every social media: I don’t give a shit, people who care calls or texts, don’t just leave the congratulations plastered for the world to see even knowing I won’t pay them much attention.

**“I will. Later. Just watch it.”**

**“K, you’ll have me there around 8. Happy birthday (heart emoji).”**

She does know how to pick my curiosity. I open up Instagram and by this point they’re still conversing about today but Beka’s peeking over my shoulder to see the phone screen. There’s a whole variety of comments from people I know, Angels and other randoms on two particular pictures: one is posted by Viktor, of course, on the rink with the sappy couple, taken the first day Katsudon came to live in Russia, and the other is… New.

I haven’t seen that one before, but I could recognize the couch behind Otabek and me anywhere: specially because it’s barely a couple of feet away from me right now, and I still have that beaming joy in his gaze when he looked at me stuck in my head. The lovey dovey fawn eyes I’m making at him in that picture and the shy smile, _that_ I haven’t noticed. Shit. And it’s heavily commented so I can’t take it down without it looking suspicious. Fuck. They even mentioned HIM so his followers and fans and even the lewd girls who follow him only because of the pictures of his bike commented on it. Awfully, of course.

“Is there something wrong?” I turn to look at Beka and realize I’m mumbling profanities a bit too loud not to be heard; I can’t really explain how this is all shades of wrong, so I just shove my phone into his hands and bang my head on the table. Hard, I didn’t calculate that one correctly. I can see my grandfather asking what all the fuss is about and him SHOWING THE FUCKING PICTURE.

“Oh, so you’re finally together?” he’s incredibly calm about this

“WE’RE NOT TOGETHER. THEY ALL THINK WE ARE NOW. FUCK.”

“Control yourself, Yurotchka, you won’t be using that language on my table…” I mutter an apology and he keeps on talking,”It’s not such a bad thing, just say you’re not together and that’s it.”

“You think they’ll buy that? You think they care?”

“Whoever’s important will believe in what you have to say. Whoever who doesn’t is not important.”

“It’ll be fine, Yura. It’s just a picture. From the videocall last night, I presume.” The Kazakh is extremely calm this time, after he had to actually ASK my permission to comment on a picture for the first time. I guess he lost the fear of it, specially now that the awful comments are back. If he can’t escape them, there’s no point to fret about them, right?

“How can you possibly know where’s the picture from?”

“That’s the living room. And your couch.. And I remember that look on your face.” Fuck, my heart started racing and I have to stop the smile to form, I’m mad, damn it! Don’t say such cute things when I’m trying to stay mad! I check the account it was uploaded to.

@sukeota3sisters

_Happy birthday, Uncle @Yuri-plisetsky!! #fromHasetsu #love #YuriPlisetsky #OtabekAltin #HasetsuIceCastle_

@IceCastle-Prod _I TOLD YOU TO GET OFF THE INTERNET_

@v-nikiforov _where’s that picture from? Cutest thing ever_

@pichit-chu _are you bringing @otabek-altin to the family? Cute!_

@christophe-gc _love is in the air (heart emoji)_

@sara-crispino _are you a thing now?_

@mila-bara _you’re starting the celebration without me? RUDE, BOYS!_

Mila did try to let it pass, but she was pretty much the only one. Shit, this is wrong in so many levels. So fucked up. A text from Yakov arrives begging me PLEASE to tell him we’re not together: Viktor really did make an impression on him, poor old man. I answer rapidly and without thinking much how WRONG they all are. We’re friends, just friends. Right?

By the time I get to comment there’s already one comment less: the italian chick seems to have erased hers.

@yuri-plisetsky _we’re friends, you fucking pervs._

A text comes in and I just try to take a deep breath. He’s right, after all. It’s just a picture. It’ll be fine. I catch a glimpse of the conversation they’re having: of course, the fucking motorcycle. My grandfather had one, long ago, until the news of a baby coming arrived: still he had his few minor crashes on his day so he’s still not convinced about me riding one. Not on my own, at least.

“Grandpa, why don’t you let Beka take you for a ride? You haven’t been on a motorcycle in, like, forever.” Otabek glances at me: he doesn’t need to know much more than that.

“I’d like to take some pictures of the scenery, we could go around and maybe have lunch?” He’s blunt and awkward, but Grandpa is honestly smiling at his effort to be nice. He goes in a hurry to his room and closes the door shut while screaming “I’ll be ready in a minute!”.

“Is everything OK?” His kind gaze focusing on me. “Is there anything you want to share?” I shake my head to let the thought go but he doesn’t look any better.

“It’s fine, Mila wants to talk. I don’t know about what, but when she’s not specific it’s because it surely is important… Sorry.”

“Don't, take your time. I’m getting to know your city anyways.” he nods at my grandfather’s bedroom door, “and I get to find out about your embarrassing childhood stories while you’re not there to complain about it.”

“He wouldn’t DARE.”

“Oh? But I would dare asking.” He winked at me and I feel the floor beneath my feet sinking. Shit, that conceited look on him, I need to kiss him, and taste him, and bite him, until all that control he seems to have fades away. I saw him beneath me, panting, begging for me not to shake what little willpower he still had to stop himself. It’s all a facade, I know, but I so want to show him.

Luckily for my currently fading self-control, grandpa gets out, coat and messenger bag ready, and takes Beka by the arm. “Are we ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re awfully formal, aren’t you?”

“I prefer it that way, sir.”

“Good. I do too. Shall we go, then?” Beka lets him take the lead, and barely turns, hand on the doorframe and gloves already on, to run his tongue, provocatively, around his lower lip and snaps a quick ”See you later, Yura.”. Damn. That outfit doesn’t leave much of his figure to the imagination: it’s even tough not to stare at the way his hips sway, only adding fuel to the fucking fire.

I did snap something, too, though.

**“I’m on my own. I’ll show you something but you have to promise not to freak out or make any weird comments. Alright?”**

**“In exchange for the comment I made my pretty friend put down? Ohhhhh yes, kitty. I’ll be nice. Show me.”** Her and the fucking kitty thing. She doesn’t deserve to know any of it. Not with that fucking attitude. But she’s the only who can help me with this, after all; I’m not talking about my fucking thirst with Yuuko, she’s too… kind for it.

I don’t know. Mila seems much more suitable for this kind of talk, but I just can’t explain how I feel right now, so I just text her the photo. Shot right when he was trying to tease me. And it clearly fucking worked: his gaze almost clouded with desire, the light passing through the fabric of his hoodie to mark the curve of his spine to the slope of his ass, in half profile, daring me to go to him, even when Grandpa was at the other side of that door. The text takes its time to come, since she seems to be erasing it and re writing it thousands of times. She finally decides for a simple **“Holy fuck. Want.”**

**“It’s mine, bitch.”**

**“Are you absolutely sure? interesting”**

**“Are you coming or what?”**

**“I most definitely have, just by looking at that picture. But yes, I’m coming over. Wait for me (heart emoji)”**

**“You’re disgusting, баба”** I can completely see her point. But I’m not fucking mentioning it. Shit, I’m so fucked. You gorgeous sexy fucker.

* * *

“Happy birthday, my grumpy kitty!” The first thing she does as I open the door is jumping over me and squeezing me like a fucking stress ball. With her around, I’m definitely a ball of stress right now, but her crushing my internal organs is certainly not helping.

“Let go, баба! Just come in and sit. Away from me.” I walk cautiously behind her to avoid her draping herself over me again, or even lifting me the fuck up, as she does, and sit in front of her on the table. I could just show her. I wouldn’t have to say much, just… hand the phone to her and let her figure out the rest.

“So, what’s going on? How’s your friend doing?” I just could…

“Well…” It’s easier, it’s simpler…. It’s something he trusted me to know, and me alone. “We’re sleeping together.”

“Yuri, I understand the guy’s hot as fuck but are you…”

“NO NO NO. ACTUALLY sleeping together. Like ON THE SAME BED. SLEEPING. THAT’S IT.” Deep breath. “And Mario Kart.”

“Uh, what about Mario Kart?” If I could only make understand all the things about that fucking game we’ve never finished…

“He’s good. Not better, but good, and I…” She’s staring now; I know she’s interested and trying to help and all, but looking up and seeing her eyes fixated at me… “Turn around.”

“What?”

“It’s something he did when I felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t actually give me space because the bed is tiny, so he... He stopped looking at me until I asked him to. Just… Turn around.” She seems puzzled, but she does, popping her elbows on the back of the chair. I figure it’s good enough, at least she can’t see what the story does to my face. My voice, on the other hand… My quivers in fucking fear and it’s just Mila, it’s FINE. Relax. Fuck. “I wanted…. I wanted to touch him.”

“Oh?”

“DON’T, MILA. I’m not like you. I wanted to touch his neck. I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense, but I did, ok?” I wait for a salty comment but there’s none. “I do and he.. Flinches. So I figure, the guy must be ticklish, and I had just had to find out.” Deep breath. Just like any other story. Go on, you’re doing great. Your face feels like it’s in flames, but you’re good. “Somehow I end up lying back against the bed, with him pinning me down and couldn’t get out. In….” Shit. Focus. “In the whole wiggling…”

“There’s no need for details, Yurotchka, it’s fine”

“There’s need for this. He got hard. He got up and left me there. He was… Ashamed.”

“Of course he was.”

“He…. What?” Am I fucking shameful to like now? Am I that terrible to people?

“You’re fifteen.”

“So?”

“You’re a kid. A heavily hormonal kid.”

“I AM NOT…”

“YES YOU ARE, YURI. You don’t know what you like or why you like it but your cock wants action and your friend’s hot.” She turns around and I’m about to slap the frown out of her face: he’s not a hookup, he’s not a hookup. “Maybe he’s important to you and that’s why you want him. Hey, it’s valid, it’s understandable, it happens.” Her eyes soften and I, although scowling, let her talk. She’s trying. “He’s not a kid. Either he wants you and wouldn’t go for you because you’re a child and you shouldn’t be screwing around or… Sh, let me speak. Or maybe he wants you NOT as an entertainment, in which case you’re still a kid and he can’t be sure you want to be with him or just want to get off somehow. Or, maybe he doesn’t want you at all, but all the dry humping doesn’t help, and he’s ashamed. Any ways, you are a KID, yuri. You don’t know exactly what you want, you just realize you actually DO have a functioning penis, and it wants out. You’re learning. Take your time.”

She actually has a point. Not about the kid thing, I’m not a kid, I want exactly what I want, where I wanna be, who I want by my side, I just… I’m not sure about him. Sure, he’s there in every future plan, but why, how, I have no idea. The fact that he’s there is enough. He told me that being here was enough for him as well, unless until I know. But how could I? I’ve talked to Yuuko, I’m talking to Mila, and it’s not helping. I don’t know what the fuck is all of this. It’s like someone took every gear on my mind and just rearrange them in some bizarre way: they’re moving, sure, but I can’t understand where the fuck they’re going.

“You said he was yours, do you wanna finish the story for me?” She looks at me like there’s smoke coming out of my ears. If they were I wouldn’t be too surprised.

“I… Well…. I…” Am not telling you every part, perv. “I went out to get food, and some air, and try to forget about it, to just…. He looked defeated. I wanted to cheer him up. I tried to. Somehow I got it wrong.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t know. Wrong things. Just… I asked him to kiss me. I wanted to know if he would.” her gaze was sparkling, I don’t know if it’s excitement or…

“He didn’t, didn’t he?”

“He said no. Period. Definitive.” I’m almost surprised when I hear that same sad chuckle out of me; the pain seems to come back just so I wouldn’t forget. “Definitive as only he can be.”

“котенок…”

“I kicked him out.” I lift my head up to look at her: she understand the rejection, stopping her own hands from holding me, just in case.” I kicked him out because he rejected me because I didn’t understand him.” She covers her mouth: the gleam is not curiosity on her eyes. “I asked him to leave because I’m a self-centered shithead.”

“Rejection feels like shit, honey, no matter if you’re right or wrong on acting upon it.”

“It’s still an awful shit to do. I…” Seeing her like this reminds me everything I thought of her, just yesterday. Reminded me how wrong I am. I’ve never really had a sister, after all. “I thought about texting you, I thought you… I didn’t.”

“Go on.” She won’t ask? That’s a new one. It’s a relief, of course, but it’s a first as well.

“I talked to a japanese friend of mine, told me to text him. I was… I was a mess, I didn’t want him here.” Deep breath. Fuck, my voice is breaking and my vision is clouding, I can’t just.. I need to hold back. I’m stronger than this. I’m a soldier after all. Ain’t I, Beka? “He told me why. Said he didn't want to cross any line if I didn’t even know what the hell was… _Is_ going on in my head.”

“What did he say about you?”

“It’s not about that, it’s…”

“What did he say about you?” She sounds determined, even through the teary eyes. She’s not gonna flinch.

“He says I’m too important to him to let me flicker around with his feelings for me. That he wouldn’t play around like that with me, that…” _I love you, Yura._

“... He’s yours, alright.” She sits back, satisfied with her comment. That’s IT?

“That’s not helping.”

“What? Do you want me to tell you how do you feel about him?” She waits for me to say something: I have nothing to say. “It your own thing to figure out, just as he figured it out about you.”

“That’s cheating, he had like five fucking years for it!” I exploded. It’s just not fair, what do I have to do to know? What is wanting and what is love, after all? Can you want a friend but not love him, not like _that_? How am I supposed to know the difference?

“Oh?” SHIT. She didn’t know that. Fuck.

“We’ve met before. On Jakov’s camp. We were kids, I didn’t remember.”

“And he did?”

 _I wouldn’t be half the person I am if it weren’t for you_ “...Yeah. He worked his way to the podium to meet me.” She’s not saying anything now, but she is smiling like an idiot. Really: not that smug “I’m gonna bring you down” smile, but an actual one, wide, eyes gleaming, the whole thing. “WHAT?”

“Nothing. It just… It’s really romantic, isn’t it? It’s cute…”

“NO IT ISN’T” Not the fact that he looked for me for five years, not the fact that he gave me a ride when I’ve barely met him for like, two seconds, and took me to the most beautiful place in Spain to watch the fucking sunset, not the landscapes of his country, the good mornings and good nights, the impromptu trip for my birthday, the social media presence only because I asked him to, the waiting, the refusing to go to bed until I answered him and just... Wait for me. None of it.

I was as dense as they come, wasn’t I? I realize I’ve been in silence for way too long now, when I see her actually expecting me to lash out at her or at least, say something.

“What do you want?”

“You like him.”

“Well. YEAH. You do too.”

“I don’t know him. He's hot. That’s all I know.” Pause. “You actually _like_ him.”

“He’s my friend, of course I do!”

“Do you love him?”

“WHAT? NO!” Shit. “I mean…” Fuck. “How’s that different?” Pause. Stop trembling.”How does love feel anyways?”

“Well… I don’t know, it’s just…” she ponders on it.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“No… I don’t think I have. I mean, I love you, I love Sara… I guess I love Yakov and Viktor as well, but that’s another love…. I’m not in love with… Well, anyone. They say you know when it’s there, you're always sure.”

“But you don't know.”

“I don't.” She pauses and her voice becomes more empathetic, even comforting. “I’m sorry, kitty, I don’t know.” Damn… I guess i’m on my own then… The only ones I know are sure of it are the Nishigoris, but she’ll tell me to figure it out on my own, and… The gross ones. And I’m not asking THEM. “So…” Uh?

“What is it?”

“Are you still sleeping together?” What kind of question is that??

“Yeah? Why?”

“So… is he, then?”

“WHAT”

“A cuddler. Was I right? I bet he’s the big spoon, he does look like…”

“FOR FUCKS SAKE, MILA!”

**“Please come back. I regret all of it. Too much time alone with her.”**

Beka texts back a photo that takes a too much time to load with the caption **“Having lunch. He brought a ton of these, we’ll take our time. Sorry.”** in the picture there’s a wailing ball of pink, fisted hands and golden fluff on the top of their head, squirming naked on some kind of towel.. OH NO. NO NO NO NO.

**“Get your ass back NOW.”**

**“But you were cute. And you had your temper. Some things never change.”**

**“NOW”**

* * *

  


@mila-bara Happy Birthday Grumpy Cat! Love you!! @yuri-plisetsky #moscow #russia #TheyGrowUpSoFast #YuriPlisetsky

@katsuki-yuuri _happy birthday @yuri-plisetsky!!!_

@sala-crispino _happy birthday, yuri!_

@IceCastle-Prod _happy birthday, Yuri!!_

  


People keep commenting on the photo of us trying to look mean, tongues out and middle fingers flipped, while we have lunch in a noisy junk food parlor, making small chat about Sara, and Georgi, and so on and so on. She knows I’m listening to half he’s saying while looking at my phone under the table, and I know she knows.

What I wasn’t expecting was the way she SNATCHED it from my hands and started giggling almost immediately. I see her typing and a rush of panic runs through my spine.

 **“That is so cuuuute, is that the kitty cub? Pretty”** The response is not even a text, and I shudder just to think what it might say.

“ _Let me guess… Mila? We’ll be there in around thirty minutes, you can ask Plisetsky (please call me Kolya,I sense we’ll be around for a while!) for the rest of them.”_ I can’t stop the rapid bright red blush on my face all of the sudden when I hear my grandpa’s voice and, of course, she noticed. The bitch always does.

“Oh? He’ll be around, huh? What were you doing to give him the impression of that?” I try to recall anything, ANYTHING, as innocent as can be to answer.

Not the fact that he called him my boyfriend earlier this morning , for instance. Or that we’ve been onto each other… Well… Pretty much since he arrived home? Fuck, I threw myself literally at his arms just because I missed him. So let’s not go with that.

“They get along really well” Aham, that seemed to have convinced, judging by her face of utter disbelief, “and I talked a lot about them to each other, I guess…”

“Hm-hm, aaand, maybe you have been fondling each other a bit too much?” She nods when my face turns to a deep fucking blush and I don’t even know what to answer. The only thing on my mind is him, lips pressed closed, shallow breathing, and the groan as his body leans into mine.

Shit, I’m sure that could only make it worse. Specially if I have to guess by Mila’s sudden giggling fit.

“Look, we’re friends, ok? Just… It’s difficult enough at it is, don’t make it weirder.” Silence. She put a finger to her lips.

“Let’s do this, Kitty. I get to browse around your baby pictures with Grandpa, because I honestly came here to meet him, and you can go play around with your friend in the meantime, ok?”

“.... Just for baby pictures? How do I know they won’t end up online? This is too good for you, Mila.”

“Mh.. they won’t. BUT”

“What now?”

“I’ll must have the latest news. Not your japanese friend nor anyone else, and NO HIDING. Got it?” It is as good as it gets, I guess. After all, she’s not so bad.

“Fine, but let’s just go home, they’ll be around there at any moment now..”

“Oh sure, just… Does he holds you because the bed is tiny, or you can really feel him around you? Like, REALLY…”

“GET A GRIP, баба!”

* * *

I can see them pulling over when I get to the corner; my grandfather is incredibly happy and talkative, and keeps on looking and circling and prodding at the motorcycle while Otabek just stays back and stares. He hasn’t been in one in ages; the guy’s excited.

The boy turns my way to make the smallest of waves towards our direction, and I can feel Mila muttering obscenities about his clearly well fitted jeans and the way the show his… I was so much better when at least it was only me and MY OWN filth, not hers as well. Pitch pit here I come.

She hurries her step to introduce herself to them: Grandpa takes her hand and compliment her look, of course, while Beka just nods at her direction. It’s still polite, I guess, and there’s no room for her to be saying weird shit or trying to feel him up… Although that wouldn’t really happen, would it? Not everyone looks like Viktor when they’re horny, right?

We make some coffee and Mila does some completely unnecessary comment about how I already know my good friend doesn’t drink coffee, and my grandfather agrees, chuckling. Fuck. Are they doing what I think they’re doing? Are they fucking plotting against me?

She rapidly corners him and covers him in flattery and small talk; the subject of my childhood is brought up and the whole “you think he fell a lot on the ice rink? You didn’t see him when he started! His ass was so swollen because of the bumps against the ice we had to go through a healing ointment a week! He didn’t get used to sleep in any other position than on his stomach until he was 8”. I get up as swiftly as I can and grab my friend’s hand to drag him onto my room just to try and avoid their conversation. She’s gonna get a lot of material to make fun of me, but at least I get to… Not being around when it happens.

I’m really screwed today, ain’t I?

I throw myself onto my bed and push the pillow over my face to let out a frustrated sigh. I’m gonna die out of embarrassment here. I can feel him shifting from where he was standing to loom over me and set his whole weight on the tattered mattress. I wait a few seconds for the shadow to move but it doesn’t, do I risk it and move the pillow away from my eyes: the first thing that pops right into my point of view are the leaned thighs awfully tight under the ripped jeans, moving into every fold of the fabric at the tiniest of shifts, and the way his broad chest tower over me, as if I were small, defenseless, against such a vision…

And I am. But that’s nothing I should share.

“What are you doing up there”; it’s anything but cute, which is good, or specific, which is not exactly helpful, but it’s definitely on point since he literally put his knees around me, even though he’s not actually sitting on me like, well, I was this morning. But it’s still unfair! He was the one who set the limits and now here I am, licking my lips wondering if I could convince him to let me taste something else, as his hips buck forward barely an inch and his thighs clench and his waist twists…

“Music. I figure you wouldn’t like to hear what they're saying about you, and that’s why you drag me here, right?” RIGHT. I do have a sound system over my bedside table.

That is most definitely what he’s doing, not trying to subtly put himself crotch first into my visual field. I recognize the music and tilt my head to the side: he’s connected my phone to the speakers and, apparently, just set it to shuffle mode. I should just let the music help me forget the feral urges…

“You should wear those pants more often” FUCK.

“What?”

“NOTHING. Just.. nothing.” He tilts his head to the side, in confusion, and I bite my lips furiously. “You look great.” A little, tiny smile starts to form on his lips and a wave of flames runs through every inch of my body. I’d like to say it’s just bashfulness but it would be a blatant lie. And he knows it: I’m sure he can see the lust in my eyes, in the way my knuckles turn white against the sheets as I try to stop myself from reaching out.

“Are you Ok, Yura?” That shitty smirk. OF COURSE NOT, YOU TEASE, AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.

“You put on the music already, why are you still all the way up there?” I try to sound pissed, I hear it as a wishful whimper. Fuck .

“I like the way you look from here.” That fucking bastard. He leans closer, hands on the wall above my head, without bringing his hips downwards; I can see every curve and fold of his torso moving along with his steady breathing, closing my own to a halt. The golden brown tone of his skin gleaming under the dim light, marking the spot where to bury my teeth at the first chance I get. His face so close to mine I feel we’re breathing the same air, even when I’m positive I’m suffocating. And at some point I must have stop blinking at all just not to miss every damn inch of his body draped all over me, yet without touching me at all. “What are you staring at, Yura?”

I try to control myself, but my head feels dizzy. I try to control myself but all I can think of it’s to rip that dumb transparent shit away and tear open that poor excuse of trousers, almost painted to his fucking skin.

I try to control myself and let him hear it, but from my miserably sore throat comes out a raspy, demanding sort of purr: “Get one fucking inch closer and I’ll bite you so hard your rinkmates in Almaty will remember my name.”

He chuckles. The bastard CHUCKLES.

“Is that it? Would you?” He actually dares to lean closer and I can feel the warmth emanating from him; this might go so incredibly wrong, but I’m craving wrong so much right now. “Or it’s just another one of your threats, _kitten? "_

Last straw, I dart my hand up so fast he doesn't react until he can feel my lips on delicate skin of his neck, my teeth gnawing at him violently. He clutches the bed frame with his hands and bury his face on the pillow right beside me, gasping in surprise; I can hear him moaning deeply into the pillow as I trace my fingernails carefully under his shirt and up his spine to go back down through his chest, roughly, but slowly, to let him feel it. It’s gonna leave a mark or two, I’m sure: that’ll teach him not to mess with the fucking Ice Tiger.

His voice slowly grows into an animalistic groan and I can feel his hips buckle slightly forward on their own, looking for some attention; I move from the second bright red mark on his collarbone to press a new one a little below, just for him to remember me on his way home, and he whimpers, but it’s barely when I stroke harshly the bulge under his pants that he goes silent for a second, moving into my hand.

“Dare to call me a coward again, Beka.” I sound out of breath, soft, pleading, but he has no self control enough to mock me right now.

He mutters a “Fuck, Yura” that shouldn’t be as inciting as it turns out to be, and I finally unzip the damn thing and push my hand all the way in to grip his length, hard. He winces and thrust fully into my hand once, twice asI keep on steadying his rhythm. He’s grown silent, clenching his teeth with his forehead press to the mattress, begging not to be heard through the still open door, while I can listen to myself as if I was the last moving thing on the planet, a hungry whimper in between lick and nips and scratches, holding onto him as he was the last piece of meal in earth.

He starts to moan erratically and mumble words I don’t recognize but for my own name as his hips move to meet my hand and rub into me as they do, his feet burying deeply into the bed in order to keep himself stable, until he actually presses one hand forcefully around mine and starts stroking harder, aggressively, while bring the other gently up to play with my hair; I can feel his eyes on me while my back instinctively arches away from the bed and my mind goes blank and giddy, the waves of pleasure from every stroke washing over me. I can feel him throbbing into my hand as he goes from delicately touching to tugging my hair back and biting deeply with the pale white skin of my neck, ripping a stifled scream from my throat and hiding his own growling; his body pulsating with the last ripples of his orgasm as he lays his head besides me, breathing jaggedly next to my ear, and let my hair go, softly caressing it out of my face.

I took my hand out from underneath him to sink my fingers into his lower back, trying to tell him I’m not done yet, but he murmurs in my ear and a warm sensation runs down my spine in a second. “Yura.”

 

“Hm?”

“This shouldn’t have supposed to happen. You’re barely sixteen.” That tone of voice isn’t convincing anyone you regret it, Beka.

“And you’re eighteen and just as horny”. I turn to see him, all flushed and sweaty and so fucking beautiful. “No one puts on a show like that out of a whim.”

“I might.”

“But you didn’t.” He smiles. Of course he didn’t.

“Remember breakfast time today, when you tried to wake me up?” What a way to change the topic of conversation. Smooth.

“What of it?”

“I remember it well.” He starts to get up and I’m so worked up I don’t have the strength to grab him by the hips and jerk his ass back down on me as I should. He pushes his leg over me and out of the bed and leans on my ear one more time: “Happy birthday, Yura.”

He leaves for the bathroom and the throbbing on my pants seem to fucking call him back. What the hell. You can’t just leave me like this! I stick my hand, all sweaty and damp because of him, down my jeans and pump hard and violently, still with the sensation of his weight over me on my skin, his jagged breath leaving goosebumps wherever it landed, and my name moaned on his lips; I bit my lower lip hard until I feel the metallic taste of blood, trying to stop the last wail from flowing as it all finally ends, and I lay there, fully clothed and my right hand still down my pants, sweaty and disheveled and fucking exhausted.

I lift my half lidded gaze to look for him and found my prize right away, leaning on the wall, dressed only in loose gym pants and staring is if he was there the entire time.

“You little tease.”

He lifts a brow and comes close to slowly lie next to me, his bright brown eyes fixated on mine. “I’m bigger than you, Yura. _And_ older.”

“You _big_ tease.” He smiles now; that sincere wide smile that only reserves for a few chosen people in a few chosen moments. That I happen to see a lot lately but always brightens my day a little more.

“You started this war; you should have known better.” And what a hell of a warrior you are.

“Truce? I’m tired.”

“And filthy.”

“Fuck you.”

“Haven’t we already been through this? Give me a break, Kitten.” I realized what he meant two seconds too late and snort so fuck ridiculously we both start laughing like children. He pulls me closer to him and press a chaste kiss on my forehead.

“You clever bastard.”

“You feisty little tiger.” He pauses and rubs his back gently with his hand, as in pain. “This better not stay for long”

“Better not. So I can mark you again.” He pulls out that face he does when he knows he already won.

“Who you think would notice first? My rinkmates, or…”

“I have better not have one single thing on my body when I come back, or else..” he leans forward until his forehead touches mine.

“You should have obeyed the rules”

“Fuck the rules.”

“You’ve got something in you neck, over there, I think…” he gently touches the base of my neck where he bit and a sting brushes through my body. He’s trying hard not to, but I know he’s laughing.

“YOU SHITHEAD”

“Goodnight, Yura.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

The slightest of ruffles tickles the tip of my nose, forcing me to open my eyes just to see him, his forehead still pressed to mine, his features completely relaxed, vulnerable, with a few strands of hair falling out of place here and there.

Even with his eyes closed and completely oblivious of my staring, there’s something inherently peaceful about him, something that envelops me. Something contagious, calm when is around but that tugs at your soul when it’s gone for too long. And it has always been too long, like an addiction, begging to be heard. The faint smell of cologne and his own musky scent mixing under the warm of the blankets fill up my nostrils and feels like home. My hand temptatively moves from balling on his naked chest to trace the line of his jaw and rapidly backs down to its place as he shudders and barely shifts in his sleep. The usually strong tight line of his lips, the permanent blank stare he keeps for the world to see, fades and becomes the softest of expressions, lips slightly parted and curved upwards. I wonder what he’s dreaming of. 

Remembering the whole events from last night, I got up to at least clean myself a bit and put on something more suitable to sleep in, trying carefully not to wake him up and taking my phone to the bathroom with me. I can hear my grandfather snoring peacefully from the other room while I browse through the device to see a new message for Mila.  **“He was holding you so tight I didn’t want to wake you up. Happy birthday, Yuri. you’ve got the best gift you could have ever wanted. Talk to you tomorrow (heart emoji).”**

I glance at the open bedroom door. I have, haven’t I?

 

Minutes later I’m walking on tiptoes back to the room, listening carefully to make sure I’m not waking up anyone; still, I reach the bed and sprawl against him, who's now laying flat on his back, one arm crossed across his chiseled stomach and the other behind his head. I let my head rest right above his heart, just to listen to him, drowning myself on the vision that is not the Dark Horse anymore, the Hero, but a gorgeous teenager in love. I can’t help but to be ask myself if I look that way when I dream of him, too. I feel a low rumble emanating from his body when he speaks in a barely audible, drowsy murmur.

“I can feel your staring, жолбарыс , go back to bed.” I want to ask what that means, but just let it go as the steady rhythm of his tranquil heartbeat lulls back to sleep. 

 

I wake up unwillingly to the sound of someone clearing his throat; I turn my head to look at my grandfather standing at the doorstep, steaming cup in hand and a frown on his gaze. It takes me a while to realize I’m still spread on top of Beka, even over the covers on a cold winter morning, practically koala hugging him, while his hand casually rests on my lower back, barely brushing under the waistband of my pants. 

I turn deep red from head to toes in a second and practically jump out of the bed, letting my friend whine as he shifts and turns on his side, hugging his middles section where I just kicked in the rush. Grandpa shakes his head and walks away; my fists ball hardly at my sides, nails digging into my flesh as a wave of sheer panic runs down my spine. 

This could go so terribly, terribly wrong. Yet it’s still something I’ve got to do. 

“Your friend wanted to say goodbye last night. She didn’t get the chance.” He doesn’t even waits for me to finish pouring my coffee and sit down; he’s troubled, his voice trembles. He doesn’t know what’s going on. I don’t either. “You fell asleep quickly in your….  _ Friend’s  _ arms.” 

It does sounds weird now, calling him a friend. Merely a friend. A friend who tickles you, who cuddles with you, who lets you win at Mario Kart when you’re about to fall asleep, who… Who says impossibly sweet things into your ear. A friend who shouldn't be doing any on it ‘cause it’s making you fussy and confused and frustrated and needy, and frustrated for being needy and not understanding, and completely lost, so fucking lost. 

Just a friend. 

“Grandpa, I…”

“No.” He cuts me short. “I don’t you to explain. I’m old, I know how the world goes. Darn it, it’s much different now, but it’s basically still the same, isn’t it?” he’s trying to calm me down but his voice is shaking. “I can’t blame you, I got married to your grandmother when I was fifteen, but strike me dead if I didn’t think you’d wait until you’re older and tired, just like Nikiforov was.” 

“You mean lonely.” Miserable. Unattached. That’s what Viktor was. Then again, wasn’t I, as well? Before Barcelona, before Hasetsu. Just… Lonely. 

“I do, I do, and I wasn’t happy with the thought, trust me, Yurotchka. I wouldn’t want you to be alone. But this…”, he glances to the room almost in a desperate gesture, “this I wasn’t expecting. You’re sixteen.”

“You were fifteen.” And I’m not with him. A  _ friend.  _ A fucking friend. That’s what he is. 

“But I was ready and sure at fifteen. Yurotchka. This is the first time I’ve seen you this close to someone. Even with the girl you don’t talk so easily, or smile so easily, as you do with  _ him. _ ”  It’s not spite what’s on his voice, but it does sound like daggers. Out of all people, I was expecting, begging for him to understand. He raised me. He should know better. Better than I do, for fuck’s sake. Someone has to. “How can you tell you aren’t just infatuated because of his attentions?”

“I CAN’T, OK?” I never yell at him. Ever. But there’s this lump in my throat and the pinpricks of tears threatening to come out and rage curling my hands into fists and I just, “I don’t know, I just… I don’t.” 

“Yurotchka…”

“But I know about him. And  he wouldn’t dare to step out of the line. He wouldn’t hurt me, grandpa.” There’s a shivering in my voice, as if I was suddenly five again and just got caught falling into the ice and tried to act tough through the pain. Hurtful, pathetic and vain. “I know, I... I hurt him and he just… Let me. “ 

The scowl turned slowly into a soothing gentle gaze as he could hear the guilt in my voice. He’s pitying me.

“People make mistakes, Yurotchka.”

“But not that. People don’t shit on other people’s feelings. Friends don’t.” it’s not justifiable, it’s not. I know how he feels and I can’t correspond. I don’t know if I do. I don’t even know if this is even worse for him that it is for me… Yet he’s willing to stay. And let me figure it out. No rush. “I don’t know what I’m doing but he lets me do it, he doesn’t patronize me, he doesn’t treat me like a child.” I lift my eyes up to his and he freezes for a second. “He trusts my own decisions. You should too.”

“Do you?”

“OF COURSE I DON’T! But someone has to! I can’t just let them, everyone else, tell me what to do with my own life!” I realize I’m yelling and I don’t want to, I really don’t, but he doesn’t stop me. 

“I just want you to remember….”

“Yeah, I’m sixteen, I’m a child, big fucking deal. I could be thirty and if he hadn’t showed up I’d still be as clueless as I am now.” He seems to have stop breathing for a second, his eyes wide. then a hysterical laughter rose to his voice. “WHAT?”

“Yes you would! Of course you would. You don’t learn about people with age. You learn with people. And him… He’s a gentleman. Who cares deeply for you.” He starts laughing harder again with one single look at my face. “I DID say I liked him, did I not? He seems nice.” 

“Well, YEAH, but I thought you were gonna….” My voice comes out in as shy childish manner, as if he was scolding me for breaking a vase.

“Kick him out? Forbid you to see him? Wouldn’t you see him anyways? No, Yurotchka… “ He ruffles my hair, trying to calm my nerves. It doesn’t but it helps a little. “He’s nice. It’s you I’m worried about. Just take it easy, yes?”

“...Yeah, Ok.” 

“And please do wake him up. He’s as much of a gentleman as he is lazy in the mornings.” At this I can’t help but cracking up: it IS hard to make him get out of bed, but we were arguing so loudly he can’t possibly be still asleep. Which doesn’t means he’ll take the tremendous effort to actually get up. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going”. I noticed a grin crawling up on my face while I walk through the hallway. Having him around is not THAT bad, isn’t it?

Not bad at all.

 

* * *

 

His “good morning” sounds more like a “I’d really rather you come back and stay in bed for the rest of the week”. Especially when he’s barely lifted his head from his arm to glance at me coming into the bedroom without bothering to even shift from laying on his stomach at all. I kneel next to the bed to snark some comment at him to piss him off. But I get lost staring at the half lidded gaze staring back so lovingly I almost felt like drowning on the sound of my rapid heartbeat pounding. Like his amber eyes are the only thing anchoring me to the ground. He looks, he stays, a half smile crawls from under the pillows and goes back to hiding.

“You’ve got something on your neck, there.” Huh? I take my phone to use the front camera as a mirror and, indeed, there is a FUCKING ENORMOUS hickey right over my collarbone. If you look really closely you could see a faint trace of the actual teeth marks still there. 

“Damn you, Beka! I was just having breakfast with my grandfather and I didn’t… How dare you!”. I punch playfully his arm and he almost  _ giggles. _ It’s amazing how cute a tough leather-wearing biker can be. Then again, seeing the faint pink trails on the nape of his neck and down, I don’t think I can’t blame him much. He did make a fair question last night. Who was gonna notice first?

“You need to get up, even Grandpa thinks you’re lazy”

“He wouldn’t mind as long as he gets more bike rides out of it.” He smirks and I know he’s right: they have bonded pretty well these past few days. Surprisingly. Fortunately. 

“Oi, watch it with Grandpa!” I punch his arm, but then remember it didn’t do much the last time; I get distracted by the tanned defined muscles showing on the small patch of flesh his shirt had let uncovered after so much swirling and rolling in bed. Before I can stop myself, my hand’s hovering over his exposed lower back and he’s lookin at me, puzzled, waiting for my next move. I need to think of something other than the need to feel his skin against mine again, specially with my grandfather is waiting for him to get up, so…

“If you’re SO tired, I’m sure there’s nothing I could do to move you from there.” He wants to answer straight away, but his expression suddenly changes: he’s suspicious. He should be. 

I run barely the tip of my fingers up through the side of his torso and he wiggles a bit and stiffens. His eyes widens in realization. He tries to look menacing. He can’t anymore.

“Yuri, you’re playing with fire. Beware” his arms start to pull back from the pillow under his head but he’s not fast enough: I reach out and straddle him, sitting on his lower back while delicately brushing my fingernails all the way up his spine, pulling his shirt almost all the way up and leaving his back exposed to the cold of the morning. I notice his feet are still entangled in the sheets so there’s no way he can kick me away, even if he could lift me up in one well planned buck and spin of his hips. I’m trusting he doesn’t realize that. i need him to feel the weight of my body on his, just so he can’t get any ideas. Or at least not particularly those. 

I let my hands find support on his wrists, pinning them down against the mattress, and buck off barely a bit to come back down, rubbing hard against the curve of his ass; I can sense the shivering on his muscles, the deep growling biting through the pillow, the very clear warning.   
“Yura, stop.” and it doesn’t sound like he really wants me to, so I really really feel the need to check. I lean onto him and leave soft chastes kisses around his back, up going down, to trace them back up with my tongue. That did surely cause a notorious reaction. I could feel my own name moaned against the sheets and his hands clenching, tensing the muscles on his arms almost enough to make me lose balance and fall off of him. But it was enough for him to suddenly pull his hands away from mine and push his hips back against my crotch, earning a little yelp of surprise and some space to wiggle and turn on his back. 

H e reaches out and pull my wrists forcefully down, making me to bend over inches away from his mouth. His gaze never left me in the whole ordeal; it feels like it was burning me from the inside out, consuming me, and I  _ liked it.  _ I try to focus: this is my moment. I feel like he’s had me dancing to his tune the whole week, but this time.. This is my time to shine.   
“You said you liked me when I lead, right? Then show me.” He looks suspicious but still lets go slowly, wary, of my wrists, letting his hands fall on the bed. I almost close the distance between our lips, watching his mouth open expectantly, and start with the plan. The payback. I claw at his sides mercilessly and he wiggles under my grip. 

“Fuck, Yura!” suddenly, he becomes LOUD. Full throttle belly laugh and cursing: two things I haven’t seen much, more like never, on him. He wiggles underneath my legs and throws me on my side, yet I refuse to let him go. We just lie there, my legs still gripping him koala-like tightly to his waist, him still trying to stop the laughing fit, tearing and grinning so much I can’t stop smiling myself. 

It’s amazing how beautiful one single person, out of millions, can get to be so alluring, so comfortable to be around, so  _ fucking beautiful. _ He lifts his brow questioningly and I don’t blame him: he must be too out of breath to ask what’s going on in my head. You are, only you. 

“Who would have guessed someone with so much leather on his wardrobe could be so fucking adorable?” He tries to brush it off but I can see him clearly blushing, leaning so close to him.   
“Does it bother you,  жолбарыс ? You were staring a lot last time I checked.” And he still plays the smooth card, the cheeky bastard. 

“Didn’t mean.. What the hell does that means, after all?”

“It means “tiger”... but right now I think “kitten” suits you better”

“Don’t you DARE-”

 

“Boys!” I could almost sense the walls vibrating when my grandfather got into the room. Beka lifted up his gaze, deep red with embarrassment, and murmured a faint “sorry” before pushing my legs off of him. I need to tell him somehow it’s alright, but I really don’t know how: I just spit out the first thing that comes to my mind:

“I did wake him up but he’s just too lazy. Maybe I could just take the bike myself and-”. Suddenly my whole perspective changes; from being facing the door over Otabek’s profile to somehow stare at the ceiling in a second, both of his hands still grabbing my hipbone to keep me in place, hard enough to leave some fingerprints on the pale skin, but not enough for them to actually hurt. He leans over and practically brushes my lips with his when he speaks:

“Play with your mates, Yura, with Nikiforov and his fiancé. Play with Mila, and the japanese family you like. Play with me. But don’t. EVER. Mess with my bike.” He’s so focused on me right now, and completely serious he’s close to terrifying. 

But closer to stupidly attractive.

I would have closed the distance between us if it wasn’t for him moving out of me swiftly and get finally off the bed to apologize to my grandfather for taking so much time on it and head to the bathroom. I felt like I stayed in the position he left me in, still thinking about his glare fixed on me, for HOURS. 

He always finds a way to surprise me. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Grandpa insisted on staying alone at home: he said the last week he had way too many people around him. 

We both know that sounds like bullshit, but get on the bike anyways and ride off to a little coffee shop Otabek saw when he entered the city; 50’s themed, small, rock’n roll music and far enough from the city for there to be any actual neighbours. Other than that, even in Russia, ice skating doesn’t have that many followers, so we’re not worried to meet anyone. We could be quiet and alone for once.

We practically hid in a booth at the end of the joint, far from the windows, just to stay away from any prospect of the Barcelona dinner happening again, and the waitress shows up almost immediately. She leaves a couple of menus on the table and proceeds to lean into it, getting really close to Beka and flashing him an exceptional angle of her considerably low cleavage. He looks at her, eye to eye, and doesn’t even blink; thanks her and put his attention back on me. 

I can hear her muttering some certainly not pretty remarks while walking away. 

“She’ll think you’re my boyfriend by the way you look at her” 

“What way?” At this point I’m starting to think he wants me to give him the chance to put on some snarky comment of his. 

“Like she wasn’t blatantly flirting with you”. The tone sound more offended that I meant it to.

“So what if she was? She’s not the first, she won’t be the last.” The steady plain sound of his voice annoyed me to no end. You really don’t care? “Yura, are you…. Jealous?”

“NO.” Ok, a bit way too loud, a fist too fast, a bit too enthusiastic. “It’s not like she practically rubbed her tits all over you.” He chuckles under his breath and I turn to avoid his eyes. He’s having fun with this.

“It’s not like she has a chance, Yura.”

“Yeah, OK.” A shudder runs down my spine when he looks at me, lust in his eyes and tracing his lips with his tongue. Still, he sits back and puts on the blank facade when the waitress comes back. 

I know nothing’s going on but I can’t stop myself when I watch her practically undressing him with her eyes, and pardon me, but with that tight black sweater he’s wearing, shedoesn't need to imagine much. I don't feel like giving her the chance, either. “Get us an irish coffee and a green tea, and a bit of space if you don’t mind. He’s with me.” I refrain myself to spit out “bitch” at her but I really want to. She glares daggers at me and Otabek widens his eyes, impressed. None of them were expecting it. Not even me, really. She gets away to get our order eyeing me like I was about to rip her throat out. Because I am about to. 

“Easy there, tiger.” He says when she’s finally away.” You’re a minor, you literally can’t order something with alcohol on it, how do you know they’ll bring it for you?”

“Easy. They’ll bring it for YOU.” Now he Is impressed. And a bit annoyed, but mostly impressed. For some reason, today I need a drink, and I have never had one, but I’m sure I need one. 

“Yuri. Have you ever had any alcohol before?”

“... Not really. It’ll be FINE-”

“I can’t take you home drunk, Yura. Not when I finally convinced your grandfather I’m not gonna make a leather wearing drug abusing biker thug out of you.”

“It’s gonna be fi- Did he tell you that?” He said he LIKED HIM. He did say it after their day together, sure, but come on. He doesn’t look even slightly like such a bad influence.  

“Pretty much.” He snorts at my face of disgust and continues. “Not like that, but it felt that way. He might like motorcycles, but away from his grandson. And without the leather.”

“What’s the problem with the leather?” Besides the obvious bad boy look, of course. But Grandpa is not that thick.

“You liked it. Notoriously. He implied I’m taking advantage of your teenage self.” I snort in disgust, just to cover the burning feeling crawling on my face. I wasn’t staring at his pants THAT much that day. Was I?

“He literally told you you were too hot to hang around with me?” A grin appears on his face: he’s enjoying himself way too much with this. Still, that smile seems so beautifully unreal I need to zone out of the conversation for a second just to appreciate it. He seems to notice because he stops and stares until I look back at his warm gaze. “What?”. At this point the girl comes back with the orders and leaves when she notices Beka isn’t even looking at her anymore. He switches them, still not too convinced of my choice of drink, and goes on. 

“I said: I’d wish that was the case…. He literally said: keep it in your pants, he’s a child and you’re not.”

“WHAT.” How dare he. YES, FINE, I have no idea what’s going on in my head, why I get so flustered every time Beka does anything even remotely sweet for me. And fuck me, he’s a fucking real life teddy bear so it happens a lot, or why I feel the urgent need to hold onto to him, to touch him, to feel him close….  It can be blamed on the hormones, sure, but i have  _ liked  _ people before, and it didn’t feel like this. I wanted to kiss people before only because I found them pretty and didn’t because, well, I thought they were just pretty. There’s a lot of pretty people in the world; that’s hardly a good motive. It’s not enough for me. 

But him? He can put my world upside down just with the minuscule flash of a smile, with a brush of his fingers on mine, with the softness on his eyes when he looks at me, reserved only for me. He laughs, barely, lowly, and my stomach churns, and my hands get desperate to reach him, and there’s this tingling, on my skin, on my lips. I can almost feel I’ve develop some sort of need for him, for his sweet comments, his sassy remarks, his beautiful photography and just a hint of that warm, soft smile, like hot chocolate on a midwinter day. 

And that cannot be just the forces of hormonal spurt working. It just can’t. 

“I’m not being forced to anything here, you know...” He looks away for a second and I know for a fact he’s hesitant. I keep staring at him just to make him talk.

“Yuri… don’t get me wrong, I know you’re here on your own free will. But you know why?” 

“Uh?”

“Why you’re here… You enjoy having me around, yes?’”

“Well, YEAH, of course I do! I invited you, idiot.” He chuckles; at least he lost the frown he was trying to hide from me. 

“Am I a friend to you?” He’s starting to piss me off with his questions, trying to make me validate my thoughts before him. They exist whether you like it or not, asshole!

“You know you are. The best someone could ever ask for.” The last part comes all mumbled and hurried but he still understands and smile that wide sincere grin for me.

“Do you think all of this -the days we spent together, the…  _ things _ we’ve done- is something friends usually do?”

“Look, if you’re regretting any of it-”

“I’m not, Yura. Of course I’m not. Trust me, there’s so much I want to share with you, so much I CAN’T. Not just yet. It’s just…” He hides himself on his tea for a second; I take a sip of my coffee and feel the distinctive burning at the bottom of my throat. So this is what booze feels like. Not as encouraging as I hoped for, but hey, maybe if I ask for something a little less diluted… “It’s just that you’re not even sure what’s going on, and I know exactly how I think of you. It’s all always your choice too, of course, but it feels like I’m taking advantage of the whole situation. “

“You could have STOPPED ME.” I don’t even understand why I’m so pissed right now. I wanted to, he wanted to. Fuck, I was craving for him, I took what I wanted, kind of, what’s the big deal? So, you sweeped me off my feet, ok, but that doesn’t mean I don’t lust for you. “If it hurts you so much, why didn’t you?”

“I want you too, Yura. It’s not always easier to do what you think is right. I just happen to not want to stop you: I really… Really enjoy being with you. But I know why.”

“I know, I know…” The love bullshit. It all would be so much easier without the love bullshit.

Viktor would have gone to Japan and back in a few weeks, tops. I would’ve fucked my friend the way I wanted to, and we wouldn’t be talking about this right now. So what if I’m not good at this? Maybe I don’t love. Maybe I can’t. Is that so bad? I mean… there is something there. But what if it’s not love? Will he stop loving ME then? 

He eyes me an softens his expression: he’s trying to be understanding but I can see he’s hurt. He should know I’m no good at fixing thisstuff by now. He should know I only fuck up with people. It’s a mystery why, knowing all of that, he’s still looking at me from the other side of his cup of shitty leafy green tea. “Let me rephrase it, ok? Don’t think too much of it.” He puts the cup down and waits just a moment. “Does this feel like a date to you?”

“Well… Shouldn’t we be holding hands for that?”, I snort and almost miss the subtle movement in which he pushed his hand closer to me on the table. The smug face is back: he’s daring me. And I’m not a good loser.

I put my hand over his completely out of spite, he snickers lightly and intertwines his fingers with mine. A heat starts to rise from my belly up as I brush delicately my fingers around his, sensing his, trying to elongate the contact, moving impossibly slow. I can notice every little crease of the hard work on the ice, every little healed cut: his hands are rough under mine, but so tender. I know for a fact my face must be every tone of red right now, but I can’t let the feeling of him against me in such a sweet, innocent way fade. This is not the furtive handjob on a dark night, clutching pillows so Grandpa won’t hear, this is real, public, honest affection. That’s what it feels like:  _ honest. _ Unashamed. 

“Are you alright, Yura?” He’s staring at me staring at our hands like an idiot, and I can’t even say how much time I’ve been doing it. It just feels safe. Solid. Like it won’t fade away on a whim. Not this one. Not this time. And it’s that on his eyes, that softness, that sweetness, that…. That is what love looks like, isn’t it?

“Don’t let go.” I realize I sound childish, small in the little whimper of a voice that escapes my mouth, but he just nods and holds me tighter.

The hours pass by, completely unaware of two boys sitting on the far corner of a small lost cafe, holding hands.

 

 

After a quick dinner we go to bed and I ask him not to do nothing: no games, no dares, no cheating. Just both of us, lying facing each other, in silence, until the exhaustion of the day gets to us.

Hands held tight.

 

* * *

  
  


The sunlight wakes us pretty easily: I turn to the window to realize we didn’t even bother to pull the curtains shut last night. Beka stirs in his sleep but doesn’t budge. Of course he doesn’t. I contemplate the thought of waking him in a way I know he’ll open his eyes in a second; his parted lips, slightly dry and plump from whatever dream he was having, seem too tempting to stop myself. 

But the right choice isn’t always the easy one, is it? 

I try to shake him awake but he takes my hand on his and presses it to his chest. “Just a minute more.” I move my eyes away from his hands and notice him staring straight at me, eyes still partially shut but trying to stay awake. “I want to see you like this a bit more.” 

“Like what?” 

“Just like this. Breathtaking….” I can feel my heart literally skipping a beat and I almost want to pull out just to run off, but his eyes hold such sweetness I don’t think I ever could. “And close.”

“We’re always close, idiot. We might be attached to the hip by now.” I try to shake off the fuzzy feeling of his cheesiness out of me: the way he looks at me, the pulse of his heart vividly on my palm, stop me to. 

“Yeah. But my plane leaves today.” Right. This is the day the week ends. This is the end we both go back and there’s no more sleeping next to each other, no more awkward touches and giggles and tickle fights, and no more holding hands. For who knows how long. No more feeling his heartbeat against my ear lulling me to sleep. No more wrestling him mid sleep to get off the bed. No more scent of aftershave on my sheets. 

Sure, we still be in touch. And we’ll send pictures, or at least I will. Tons. I’ll make him remember every single minute, every single touch, every single word. Every single tear. I’ll make him understand a moment with him is the best gift I could ever ask for, even if it was just five minutes. I’ll make him cherish our first official date. 

I rest my head back on the pillow and stare at the dark depth of his gaze, widened with something that feels like admiration. I try to ask. I realize my voice doesn’t come out. He still knows he needs to say something.

“You’re truly beautiful, Tiger.” I try, really try, to feel offended: the blush tints my cheeks faster than I could ever stop it. “And having you by my side makes me incredibly happy”. My breath catches on my throat. I can only bite my lip in response, trying hard of thinking of something to say. Nothing comes up right away. 

We stay until lunch time in bed, just there. Together. Close.

 

Grandpa practically pushes us out of the door, Otabek’s luggage in hand, immediately after lunch, saying he’ll meet us tonight at the airport. My plane leaves three hours after Beka’s, so he’ll figure I’d like to stay with him until he leaves, and then he could catch up and bring my own baggage.  I can only think of one place to go to say goodbye properly.

We get to the ice rink faster than I was expecting, and for a moment I don’t react when the engine stops his low purring. He doesn’t rush me to get off either, to let go of his waist, to stop leaning on his back yearning for the touch of his body against mine. 

We get ready for the ice having rented some skates, since neither of us brought our won. I’m not used to rented skates, and these feel a bit tight on the toes, but I won’t complain. He gets onto the ice and waits for me near the entrance, a hand extended for me to take. I’m not a kid, I’m a gold medallist for fuck’s sake, but I take it still, just to have him closer. 

We start doing eight figures lazily on the ice, hand in hand, just enjoying the feeling of it all. Every memory of this place flashes before my eyes and I absentmindedly start telling the story of how I fell from the bleachers when I was four, trying to pet a cat who got into the rink, or how I fell on my first jump on the ice and got up covered in tears to keep trying, or the first cut on my hand when I slipped and grabbed the blade instead of the skate on a spin. 

I can’t tell when he got so close, holding me by my waist while our circles got wider and faster until they almost reached the side boards, listening intensely to my stories, a subtle half smile plastered on his face. It feels like we’re alone on the ice, even though I’m positive everyone, children and grown up alike, are staring. Especially because here, in an actual ice rink where ice skating fans show up, we’re pretty known and maybe even a little bit too close. 

I stop my rambling to follow his moves as he holds me directly against his chest, forcing my hand to hold on his shoulder on the sudden motion, and the heat from his touch spreads rapidly through every inch of my body; he lets me lean on his arm, bending backwards as he pulls me to the inside of our circuit, and after an aeternal second of him looking down at me, almost the way Viktor looks at his piggy, with such devotion. He pulls me back up and lets me go, blushing spreading slightly through his cheeks. 

I can’t really say how long we’ve been skating lazily, barely talking, just enjoying each other’s company on the ice, when my phone’s alarm starts blasting at full volume from the side of the rink. It’s time to go and my body starts resenting the like of his warmth against me, even before I reach to step out the ice. 

I guess our time is finally up.

 

* * *

  
  


A spiced milk tea on one hand, a hot chocolate on the other. He looks at me, sitting a bit too close besides him, legs draped over his. He opens his mouth to say something and stops himself. His wounded eyes are killing me and I can’t refrain myself from putting my arms around his waist and hold him in a bone crushing hug, so that he won’t forget about me, about this, any time soon. He doesn’t shift from my hold, he doesn’t wince, he doesn’t ask me to stop. I feel his lips on my forehead as he kisses me and hugs me back.   
“Text me, okay?” I don’t lift up my head from nuzzling on his chest but I don’t need to, I know he understands. “Call me whenever, send me pictures or stories or whatever, just… Keep in touch.” I feel his hand on my chin, lifting my head so he can press his forehead against mine, eyes half closed and whispering.

“I’ll never forget not one minute of this. Not one word.” He smiles his hidden subtle smile as he goes on. “I’ll miss you too, Yura.”

I recognize the flight number they’re calling to board but I play dumb: I don’t want this, not yet, I just need one more minute. One more hug. I pull out my phone, ignoring every notification and text received, though they’re more than a few, and set up the camera. At the very least I should get to take the last picture of such a wonderful week. 

He barely smiles for the camera, of course. But his eyes tell the whole story. I wonder who could read them the way I do.

The picture doesn't show I’m sitting on his lap with an arm still around him. Doesn't catch his hand slowly caressing my thigh. doesn't get how we try to make this moment much, much longer. 

 

I post it as I see him up disappear through the gate: he’ll still have connection for a few minutes until he actually takes off. I can still say anything I need to. I can still feel him close

. 

@yuri-plisetsky  _ best birthday ever w/ @otabek-altin _ #moscow #airport #aweektoremember

 

I don’t wait for the comments to start appearing. I don’t check the still incoming notifications. I sit, chocolate in hand, just waiting for my grandpa to come meet me, looking at my feet until the vision turned blurred. 

I wiped my tears away the minute he crossed the front gate, looking for me. 

  
  


I stop mid running when I see him close, clutching my bag in one hand and a stuffed bear in the other; for some reason the way the plush doll is dressed sounds familiar. He holds me tight against his chest while looking for the right words; I guess it’s a family tradition then.

“what’s that?” I let go of his hug and point at the plush bear.

“That? It was in your room and it wasn’t there before, so I guess you’d want to keep it.” It was dressed in a white and blue formal jacket and light blue slacks, like a little prince. Suddenly I remember the suit, the Grand prix Final, the free skating routine… But I can’t remember the ribbon tied to the bear’s neck. I take it and stuff it in my bag anyways; I figure I can ask about it later.  

We try to make some small talk but we seem to not being able to focus on any other thing but the fact that we’ll be far away from each other, again, for who knows how long. The conversation keeps drifting to the same subject and I keep on promising that I’ll be fine, I’ll eat every day, of course, Lilia wouldn’t allow it otherwise. I won’t hurt myself over practicing, I promise, I’ll call. I’ll definitely call, every day if I can. I’ll miss you. And you’ll miss me, of course, so grown up, so strong already. 

The hours pass before we can notice and the dreaded flight number echoes on the speakers: I guess I must go now. Grandpa sniffles a little but doesn't let a single tear fall. He’s strong, stronger than I could ever hope to be. Time for one more embrace and then, off through the gate, alone again, so painfully far from everyone.

 

I take my seat and pull my hoodie up, searching a song on the playlist and playing it at full blast so I can’t hear anyone who dares talk to me right now; I purchased the window sit specifically so I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone and so far it has worked just fine. Instagram’s been sending a ton of stuff lately so I open the app and take a picture of the landscape through the windows with the caption “going back” and a couple of simple hashtags. I block the device again not even bothering to check on the unread texts. 

I never bother putting my backpack on the bag compartment: I prefer to just keep my things around me as much as I can, so when I kick it and feel something particularly soft on it I remember. 

Taking the plush out, I untie the baby blue ribbon on his neck and notice there’s something black written on the inside of it, partially smudged in some places: “Мен сені сүйемін”. Fucking Kazakh. I can’t ask him directly what it means since he’s already going home and my plane’s starting to glide down the track. I type it as fast as I can on the translating app before the signal dies out completely, and my vision gets blurred again. I shift my body to face the window fully and stare at the screen until it goes off again, without even noticing the moment i press my forehead to the cold glass. 

The ringing on my ears stop me from hearing my own voice sobbing over a silly little phrase on a ribbon until the plane stops again and my face feels all wet and hot and teary. I run off to the bathroom to fake a strength I don't really have. The eyes of a soldier can’t be these. This is a face of a little kid being left alone, all over again. Clutching onto a teddy bear for dear life.

A teddy bear with the phrase “I love you” around his neck.


	8. Chapter 8

 

I was hoping to get a cab and go safely, quietly, home. I was hoping to just rest today, since it’s almost midnight, and face everyone tomorrow again, and every question that I already know will be too many and specially annoying. Specially painful. 

I was not expecting this. 

 

When I saw Viktor through the glass doors, hugging Katsudon and planting kisses on his neck, making him giggle like a idiot, I felt the nausea coming. Damn it. One day. Let the grossness out for one day, at least in a fucking airport. When I see them actually waving at me I realize I have no choice but to go with them. 

The gigantic poodle of a man lifted me up on a hug before I can even react, squeezing the air out of my lungs while Katsudon silently puts my bag on the trunk of the car, vaguely smiling at me as to say sorry. I smack the huge idiot on the arm as soon as he lets me go and get in the car without a word. I didn’t need this, I could have gotten home on my own. 

“Sooooo,” Viktor seems to sing out the words, “how was your birthday?”

“Fine. Why are you here?” I spat out as venomously as I can. Viktor doesn’t even flinch, keeping his gaze on the road, just occasionally stealing glances at me to the rear view mirror with that stupid suspicious grin of his. Yuuri, on the other hand, tries to keep the conversation flowing.

“How did it go with Otabek? Did he meet your grandfather?”

“Of course he met my grandfather, HE STAYED AT MY HOUSE.” Viktor lets out a small whistling and jumps in, looking at me through the mirror.

“Oh? And did something happen that you decided to pair skate like lovebirds?” His tone annoys me the fuck out of my wits; the only reason I don’t kick him into oblivion is because he’s the one behind the wheel. 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, OLD MAN.” Katsudon scolds him under his breath and gestures to my phone.

“You should probably check your Instagram, Yurio.” The idiot mumbling “I thought he knew!” while I scroll through the hundreds of shares of one single post tagging me and Beka: someone took a picture of us skating, him staring deep into my eyes while bending me closer to the ice, and I can almost recognize that stare. The same he had when he looked at me that morning, mesmerized, lovingly, so impossibly sweet. I find myself glued to that photo and almost don’t realize of my own face on it: wide eyed, lips parted and barely twisted upwards, slightly blushed and with such a particular way to look at him. Affectionate, sure. Impressed even, maybe. Relieved at some point, but definitely happy.

I download it without them noticing and start looking through the comments insinuating that we’re a couple, and some of the most obsessive fangirls ranting, in all caps, how I would NEVER date a fellow competitor, much less the Dark Horse. I have to fight the urge to unravel my whole and pretty extensive glossary of profanities at her because  _ how dare she treat my friend like that  _  but decide against it since it will surely do more harm than good. He’s around my feed a lot, anyways; if she didn’t notice it’s because she’s trying hard not to see. I lift my eyes up to realize Katsudon is still staring at me, waiting for me to say something, smiling like he knows. But there’s nothing to know, right? Nothing so impressive. We went to skate, we were having fun, the picture happened, period.

“I just showed him my hometown rink, what’s so weird about that?” I try not to pout, not to hide under my hoodie. Mission failed. Both of them. Miserably if I may add.

“Nothing! Of course, nothing’s weird with that; it’s just nice you’re sharing the thing you love with people.” It sounds like the sentence doesn’t end there but I cringe at how could he close it, knowing how awfully cheesy these guys are. I’d better not give them the chance to say one more word. 

“Look, I’m tired, OK? Just shut up for once and take me home.”

 

Once we arrive at Lilia’s house, I snatch my bag out of Katsudon’s hand and get in in a flash, trying to avoid the hug Viktor looked so convinced I needed. I walk upstairs without paying too much attention to the two people sitting on the couch shooting out trivial questions that could be easily answered by a series of random fine’s and OK’s followed up by a simple 'goodnight' and the sound of a door closing.

I throw my bag in some corner and sit on my bed as Anje jumps into my lap, rubbing her face against the plush bear I let out of the backpack to hold in front of me. Ha, she misses him more than she missed me, uh?

The ribbon is tied back onto the plush’s neck. I should probably text him. My hands fall automatically on the fluff of the cat and behind her ears, trying to find some clarity from her purring: it usually works. But this is much too different than if I should tell my coach about a bad fall or if I should get Mila away for her particularly douchey new prospect. I’m tired of relying in people but I can’t find a way to stop this constant mess of emotions and images and sensations too clustered together to understand any of them separately. 

So, I love my friend: of course I do, he’s my friend, the one person I can trust. Sure, there are Yuuko, and Mila, and I guess the awful couple found their own place somewhere around there as well. But they’re not like him: he might like to mock me, and try to get me flustered on purpose, and check if I really would kick him as much as I say I will. But then again he never really judges, or stops me from rambling about the same things over and over. And he doesn’t treat my feelings as a teenage phase thing… Well, not until now. Not until an actual line has been drawn and he seems like he feels it’s a crime to cross it. I’m sixteen, I’m technically of age, and just because I hadn’t have a love interest before doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. 

But that wasn’t exactly what he said, was it? It was more on the lines of  “I won’t touch you just because you want someone to”.He doesn't get I don’t  want someone, I want _him_. 

**“Cute bear. You’re also cheesy as fuck. Who knew.”** It sounds somehow aggressive but I’m sure he’ll  read the right way: we’ve spent too much time together this past week  for him not to, after all. And he always has seemed to be able to read me like an open book. Not that I actually try to hide from him. I know there must be still some eight hours left for him to land, so I know he won’t be reading it until morning. Somehow it’s still relieving to text him, even when he can’t answer. But I’m still too anxious to sleep right now, so I proceed to text her, just to see what she’s doing.

**“When are you coming back? Yakov is gonna pester me if I go back to the rink alone.”**

**“He won’t if he knows how hard you’ve been practicing, according to the people attending your hometown rink, kitty (heart emoji)”** , That damn picture. It’s gonna be hard to come back tomorrow.  **“Fret not, my child, I’ll be there with you tomorrow. Love ya”**

Idiot. I should just get some sleep to get ready for the storm coming. I can almost feel the static in the air. 

Home sweet fucking home.

 

* * *

 

 

I wake up to the all too familiar sound of Lilia banging on my door while politely asking me to get down for breakfast in a tone so enraged that makes anything sounds far from polite. It’s still way too early and I’m sincerely starving, so I just put on a loose hairband and my training outfit to go down and sit in between two particularly grumpy old people. 

“You didn’t brush your hair” What a swift, clever woman.

“No I didn’t. You asked me to  _ get down this instant, young man. _ I did.” I wanted to glare at her but I’m suddenly too focused in stuffing my face with food so I’m not even looking at the scowl I know she’s wearing.

Yakov interrupts suddenly.

“Yurotchka, Vitya wants you for dinner, so we’re going with them-”

“WHAT.” Since when do they decide what I do with my free time. And why THERE? At this point I don’t know if it’s because of the pictures, or the birthday, or Katsudon being close to Yuuko, but there’s not one way this will be less than fucking awkward. “Why should I?”

“It’s important for your career, he’s a legend, he knows everything there is to know…” He realizes I’m not looking forward to it, as if my face wasn’t enough to notice, but keeps on going. “Look, it will be for the better, Yurotchka, just you go. It won’t be that bad.” I can’t really do much; if I’m not going, I’d better let that clear directly to them, and not to Yakov, who surely already said yes on my behalf.

“FINE, but if it IS terrible I’m coming back early. I don’t have to stay.”

“You don’t have to stay.” It is better than them locking the door from the inside so I’m obligated to stay over there, so. It could be worse. It could also be much, much better. But I’ll have to settle for what I can get today; I’m still too tired to argue. 

 

As she promised, Mila is on time to train, but doesn’t do much more than waving and sending furtives pitiful smiles at him. So she knows, huh? 

Of course she does: the gigantic idiot is telling everyone we’re having a “family dinner” tonight to celebrate. I’d love to lash out at him but I don’t have enough energy to concentrate on anything but skating: I haven’t slept much last night, without the heat of another body besides me, of his breath against the nape of my neck, and if I fall just once Yakov could have the impression that these training breaks are doing too much harm on my practice. 

I won’t allow him to take the chance to see my grandfather away from me. 

 

Mila finishes her practice and waits for me: the couple of lovebirds are already out and preparing dinner for tonight, so I’ll just have to catch up whenever I feel like it, which might mean in a couple of hours. As soon as I reach my bag, still with the skates on, and whip the phone out, she drapes herself over me; at this point I don’t really care what she might see. I have told her WORSE than she can ever read on it. It’s not like Beka is capable of sending sudden dick pics anyways. I manage to see a text saying  **“Glad you like it. Good morning and good night”** with a picture of a kazakh morning from a balcony that could perfectly well be his, his own silhouette cast on the door glas. The embrace on my shoulder tightens.

“Ow, he’s cute! Is that his home?” She might not have seen anything weird but she sure is nosy anyways.

“What do you care,  баба? Let go!” I realize that I’m not really fighting her off so much but still she does releases me in order for me to untie my skates. 

“Mama and Papa bear are waiting for you, why don’t you go talk to them about…?” She does a wide gesture at the phone and I suddenly feel the need to bash it against her head. I’ll miss it, though, so I don’t. I just get ready to get away. 

“I’m NOT telling them anything. So watch your mouth.”  She nods, giggling, and I don’t believe her for one second, but she did have a whole week to fuck up and didn’t. I’ll just have to. “And don’t call them that, it’s creepy.”

“They like it.”the image of them hugging me like an old married couple with their child pops up on my head and I can already feel the bile climbing up my throat. Disgusting. “And they’ll ask, you know they will.”

“Yes, I KNOW. I’m trying to prepare myself to not throw them out of the window.”

“You’re not big enough.” She’s openly laughing at me now but the grossness doesn’t let me get mad at her.

“I can always get my skates.”

“They wouldn’t be so dumb to let you near them. You should go: they’re waiting.”

“Yeah, the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll get out, I guess.” 

 

We part ways at the rink’s front door and I put on my headphones; I haven’t been around here in a week and it feels like years. Like I’ve spent a lifetime embraced by Beka and my grandpa in our own little world, circling around a snowglobe, knowingly yet not wanting to get out. 

The apartment is just a few blocks away, on one of the expensive skyscrapers close to the rink, and I get there in a matter of minutes, even before the cold starts piercing through my clothes. I take the phone out once again just to check the time of the picture, taken somewhere before noon, and block it again to stare at the picture of us on the ice, fixated on each other, as if the rest of the world had suddenly vanished and we’re all alone on the ice, as if that was just how it should be. I decide eventually to ring the buzzer on their floor and the door buzzes open almost immediately. This is gonna be a long, long night.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Viktor opens the front door with a really loud and overexcited  _ welcome _ , crushing my ribs to dust on a hug, I can feel my phone vibrate: I don't take it out until I can finally get off the old idiot and his huge lapdog bouncing around and licking my hands, to sit on a couch and wave at Katsudon, still in the kitchen.  A new text and an Instagram notification come up almost at the same time. I click on the latter first, just to prepare myself for whatever they’ll have to say when they see it. 

##  @otabek-altin _Goodbye, Moscow. We’ll see each other again. #moscow #russia_

 

That’s the view from the lake we went to the day after he arrived home; the sun shining bright on the bridge’s stones, reflecting into the golden strands of hair trapped by the gentle breeze while a hand tries to hold in place behind their ear, mouth slightly agape in astonishment with the beauty of the clear blue stream underneath their feet but still, somehow, smiling. 

I remember that; it wasn’t exactly a date, he said. It was way too good for it. That’s the first thing he does when going back home? Post a picture of me? 

 

@yuri-plisetsky  _ when did you take that? _

@otabek-altin  _ On your birthday. The first one, at least. _

@yuri-plisetsky _ Idiot.  _

@otabek-altin  _ Туған күніңмен, жолбарыс _

 

I can feel their eyes burning through my skull where they’re staring, one man sitting on a bar stool and the other fiddling with something on the stove. Do they really think I can’t notice them? I lift my head to glare at them and Viktor just  _ giggles.  _ Phone in hand. Fuck.

“You were smiling at you phone, Yurotchka.” I was clearly not smiling at _you_ , that’s for sure.

“Are you listing my face expressions now, old man?”

“Well, with the amount of times you actually smiled, I could easily count them.” I can hear his fiance scolding him from the kitchen but I still put my foot around his bar stool and pull, making him fall flat on his ass.

“Remind me why I’m here again.”

“In a minute: let’s eat first. I’m making Katsudon, I thought you’d like it.” I mumble an OK and sit on the bar, watching him work, while opening the text I couldn’t yet read. 

 

It was a picture, and I knew that damn couch. I knew that perfectly sculpted chest, splashed with little water drops as if he was freshly out of the shower, tracing every curve on his torso, highlighting the dark trail of hair going down from his belly button to the hem of his loosened gym pants that curled a little under his knees and show the tanned bare legs and… are those...?

 

**“You kept the slippers.”** the reply gets in quick: he’s online right now.

**“I did lose that game.”**

**“That’s why you left the bear?”**

**“I brought it for you, I just forgot to give it to you sooner. I was busy, you see.”**  I can almost see the smirk on his face. He’s liking these games. 

And I’m not stopping them: I’m starting to learn how to win. 

**“Ribbon and all?”** This time, the message takes a bit longer.

**“No. I didn’t think it would be necessary. You surprised me.”** You were the one sharing all these… Things. I look at the kitchen and see Yuuri preparing the bowls while Viktor hugs him from behind, whispering things into his ear. Is that what love is? The tingling on your skin when they touch you? The need to never pull away? The lack of sleep when they’re not around, or the warmth spreading through you when they are the first thing you see in the morning? 

**“You weren’t planning on telling me?”**

 

The plates arrive and I put the phone in my pocket, ignoring the buzzing. They try to make small talk about my grandfather, and the city, the motorcycle rides; I concede. You have to be thankful for a bowl of homemade katsudon after all, and the guy does know his way around a kitchen. I enjoy the almost familiar setting of it all until the idiot strikes:

 

“So, let’s talk about sex.” He says with that silly grin he always wears.

“Viktor, what, no!” 

“WHAT THE HELL, GEEZER.” Yuuri might be shocked, but I was sure it was bound to happen. “I had the sex talk already, I’m fucking sixteen, you idiot.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure you did, where would those hickeys come from if not from sex?” My face suddenly feels like it was lit on fire. The hickeys. Damn it. I’ve almost forgot. “But because you’re having it…”

“I’M NOT. And I wouldn’t come to ask you about it anyways if I were.”  Katsudon can’t separate his hand from his face from the embarrassment but his fiance doesn’t even flinches. Viktor doesn’t have one inch of shame in his body.

“Who better than me to tell you how to be safe with your boyfriend?.” I get up and stomp to where my bag is when I feel a hand on my shoulder. 

“He’s an idiot, please forgive him.” I want to spit out every swear word in the book to Katsudon, but he does look like he has something important to say. I don’t know if it’s pity or curiosity or what, but something lmakes me let the bag fall on the floor again and allow him to take me to the master bedroom and wait there for him, sitting on the bed. I check the text I didn't get to read before, now that Viktor is being loudly scolded in the living room.

 

**“Not like that. And not then. I didn’t want you to feel like you were obligated to return the feeling somehow.”** Fuck you and you niceness, Beka. You need to stop feeling responsible for my own actions for once.

**“I wasn’t gonna do anything I didn’t want to.”** Idiot.  **“Still, I have to say you won.”**

**“Did we still have a bet going?”**

**“The geezer wants to give me THE TALK because of the chunk you tried to bite off my neck”**

**“well… the flight attendant and a few girls were eyeing me the entire flight. But if you yield…”** I'm not letting you win, you bastard. Even though they'll surely weren't staring because of the bites if you just happened to be wearing that particularly translucent shirt. 

**“I'm not yielding, you fucker. I'm not a loser (fuck you emoji)”**

**“You are a sore one. You cheated. And I don't think I've done enough to be called that.”** It takes me a while to figure out what he means. But I do.

How DARE he. And he says he doesn't flirt. In my dictionary, that sounds like a challenge.

**“That one's on you.”** I won't give him the chance to answer, especially when the discussion on the other room seems to have ceased.  **“Katsudon's back. We'll talk later. Don't go to bed without me”**

**“I won't. Let me know if they’ll force us to marry before I earn the title of… what was it again?”**

The shithead must be having so much fun making me blush like a silly school girl two minutes before the door creaks open.

 

* * *

 

 

Katsudon looks down to where I threw myself, my back bouncing on the soft mattress and a pillow held tightly to my face. He doesn't seem to understand what's going on. He's denser than I thought.

He waits for me to get up and I wait for my face to go back to an actual human color to sit up again; it feels like forever. He looks at me like I'm a kid in his care and I already want to kick his face in even though he hasn't said a thing yet.

“I know Viktor can be… Intense. He doesn't mean any harm, he just gets excited and doesn't realize what he's saying…” I cut him short before I really get the need to punch him.

“Listen carefully. I. Am not. Fucking. Otabek. Is that clear?” he doesn't flinch.

“I believe you. I do. But, Yuri, you ARE getting close, and I'm not talking about sex. You know what I mean.” I take my eyes away from him, there's something about the things he says that makes me feel uncomfortable. Close. We can't get close, we're literally…”Long distance relationships can be tough-”

“He's NOT. MY BOYFRIEND.” We're friends. Just friends. No more. Not now. Not like this, far away, confused and with an idiot patting on my back and telling me that everything will be OK.

“I know that but it doesn't make it any easier. Especially if you've been living together”

“It was a WEEK.” he sighs when he sees me rolling my eyes.

“Still. Listen, I'm not asking you to tell me anything right now. But I want you to know you can talk to me at any time.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, for starters, I'm about to marry my childhood idol.” He smiles trying not to look smug. He still sounds like it. I can't deny he does have a point but I'm certainly not following his footsteps.

“You suggest I should just grind half naked and black out drunk onto him and everything will solve itself?” He turns bright red and laughs nervously.

“Alcohol can certainly lose one's tongue but I certainly don't recommend it, no.” I want to ask… But not to him. He's had it easy, he's always known, he's had Viktor at his feet from day one. The guy had gone to Japan to find him, for fuck’s sake. 

Well… Not that Beka didn't come to my home to meet my family. I mean. I invited him; he didn't just show up out of the blue and glued himself to me with some cheap excuse. Even though he did appear out of thin air in Barcelona. It's hardly the same. Isn't it?

“FINE” I hurled myself back against the couch. “I'll ask. But you have to be nice.” He wants to say something but I won't let him right now; his condescending tone puts me on edge. “NO teasing. And DON'T tell anyone.”

“I'll have to tell Vik-”

“ESPECIALLY NOT VIKTOR” 

“Yuri, he's my -” He looks hurt but if he starts talking all around the rink, I'll have to murder each and everyone. I won't have them talking about us as if we were THEM.

“NOT. A. WORD.” 

“FINE. Not a word. Promise.” I guess he wouldn't dare. He's not that courageous. I cover my face again with the pillow and ask away. 

He doesn't quite understands. I'm sure Beka would.

“I said how did you know?” Pause. He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. “That he was the one you wanted to be with.” Silence. Chuckles. The bastard’s laughing at me.

“He was my idol, I knew right away.” Pause. He gets up, I'm sure he's closer now but I don't want him to look at my face. “Do you…” He sounds like he was kneeling at the side of the bed. “You don't know if you're in love?”. He's  _ pitying me _ . I can hear it in his voice. It exasperates me. I throw the damn pillow at him and he doesn't react fast enough.

“I'M NOT A CHILD, DON'T YOU TREAT ME LIKE ONE.”

“I'm not, I'm not! I'm just asking…” 

“... Yuuko said I should figure it out on my own.” 

“Oh? Have you told Yuuko?” He seems genuinely surprised. If I didn’t know any better, maybe even a little offended.

“Well YEAH. She's married, not grossly attached to her husband’s face.”

“That hurts, Yuri… But yeah. You'll know when it happens.” He smiles and weirdly, I do feel relieved. He lets me stay alone on his bedroom until I feel like going back into the living room, and I can do only one thing to forget the pressure of such a conversation. 

 

 **“We don't have to marry but you'll probably have to put up with THE TALK too”**. H is text comes in right away, as if he was waiting for me. As if it wasn't close to midnight over there.

**“I'll survive as long as he doesn't go really specific.”**

**“Wth does that mean? Am I gonna be sick?”**

**“We’ll have to wait and see.”**

**“YOU'LL GIVE ME NIGHTMARES, BEKA”**

**“I'll text you goodnight so you can sleep well.”**

**“Corny as fuck.”** It's almost like he tries to find a chance to be sweet and cheesy and  _ fuck, he's cute.  _ **“I have your bear to sleep with”**

**“You're abandoning me for a teddy bear? I'm hurt, Yura.”**

**“You deserve it. Being so lovely”**

**“You love it. I will text you goodnight anyways, I miss you. So let me know when you get home.”**

He knows I'm grinning like an idiot. He knows I always do when he says stuff like these: half of the times we were skyping and I had no way to hide. 

I know he's doing it on purpose.    
I know he means it.

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor is already cuddling in the sofa with his fiance, one hand on the other man’s hair and the other who knows where. He sees me getting out of the room, pocketing the phone and doesn’t even bats an eye. Katsudon, on the other hand, turns around and pulls the idiot’s hand out of somewhere between them and sits up, silently scolding him. apparently that's enough to make him speak.

“Is everything OK, Yurio?” The dumb heart shaped smile on his fiance’s face doesn’t even quiver, the asshole. 

“Don’t call me that.” His expression changes in a second. He was expecting yelling, he always is. 

“You know I was just-” One more words and I feel I’ll snap his neck. 

I’m tired of this, of everyone around asking me to check my step, to go slow, to do something. But I don’t have anything to watch for, I’m not going anywhere, I’m just… Drifting. And they try, I’m sure they try, but they’re not helping. High school sweethearts, idols, “meant-to-be” love stories…  And I just wonder why the idea of holding his hand over a hidden corner table at the smallest cafe in the city makes my cheeks burn brighter than the idea of having him moaning low under my weight. What do you do when nothing is as cliched as every love story around you?  

“Don’t. Not one word.” For once, he’s trying to reach out and not actually mock, but I can’t deal with anymore of this. It’s all much easier with him; much easier without people judging what are we doing, what  _ are we.  _ It’s much easier just to let go of the definition, just to be. “I don’t care.” After all, it’s just a title, isn’t it? “I’m fine.” I’m perfectly fine as it is; no matter what it is, as long as he’s on it. I’ll be fine. “I’m just gonna go now.”

  
  


The cool air whistling rapidly through my ears soothes the feelings of claustrophobia and the numbness in my face reminds me of the wind rushing towards me while standing on the bike, all adrenaline and awe, clutching hardly on his shoulder, listening to him giggling low under the engine noise and the cars shuffling past us. 

I feel the need to stop and look for it (the video must still be on my Instagram somewhere) and play it once more. This time it doesn’t feel like a product of my imagination, having heard that low sneaky laugh more than once before while my head was resting against his chest. It doesn’t look like a trick of the camera, the furtive smile on the rear view mirror, the relaxed features. We were so free that day, so past the competitions and birthdays, and the people asking nonsense, and love… We were two idiots on a bike doing stupid risky things through the motorway. We were invincible. 

I can think of only one thing to calm my nerves now.

**“Skype. Thirty minutes. It’s a date, Beka, don’t leave me waiting.”**

  
  


* * *

  
  


He's already logged in by the time I get to the room and turn on the laptop, skilfully avoiding every attempt of interrogation by my coaches by shouting “YOUR PROTEGE IS A NASTY PERVERTED FUCK” and slamming my bedroom door behind me. They're used to sudden outbursts on my side and gross romantic behaviour on Viktor’s so I know they won't ask. 

He looks exhausted, yet different from other nights when he stayed way past his bedtime to talk about some particularly difficult day for me. He seems refreshed, relaxed, almost younger, as if some weight has lifted from his shoulders. 

There's a book sitting on the couch next to where the back of his head is resting and a mug lazily clutched on his lap; a subtle lingering smile pales against the screen light that makes his skin glistens on his still naked torso. I want to tell him it's all way too much, that my world has turned upside down in a damn week and I still don't know if that's a bad thing.

“Do you even sit on that couch?” He laughs lazily and runs a hand through his hair

“If I do now, you’d be staring at my crotch.”  _ Who says I wouldn’t even if you don’t _ . I catch him smirking and notice I haven’t answered back. “Do you want me to?”

“NO! Damn it... “ I have only the light on my night table on and I hope it’s enough darkness to hide the blush crawling up to my ears. He doesn’t make a sound but I can see it on his face: he’s having so much fun with it. 

“How bad was it?” I remember why I asked him to log in and I push a pillow down my face, a long  _ painful _ groan escaping my lips, even muffled by the fabric. “Yura, it’s a Skype call, I’ll need you closer to the mic to understand you.” 

Out of sheer exasperation I pull myself up and really close to the camera, my lips almost brushing the microphone over the screen, and say the words really slowly. 

“I. Hate. Them. Both.” He knows it’s not true, but he’s not saying a thing. I get away from the laptop to look at him and he’s sitting there in awe, his tongue running around the edges of his teeth and his stare hungry with desire. He sees me lean down again and suddenly snaps out of it, spilling his tea all over himself with a loud “Fuck!” He stands up to get away from the camera view, probably to clean himself off. “Are you still there?” 

He shows up on knee long tight leggins and slumps on the floor right in front of the camera a minute later, sighing. “Yeah. Just a bit… Tired.” I bite my lip: I should probably just let him go to bed, yet he keeps talking. “Tell me, what did they say?”

“That their life is a fucking fairytale. As always.” I feel the urge to belch when I remember them both cuddling on the couch, like teenage lovebirds, whispering things to each other. “Their whole constant cuddling and groping and kissing is… Ugh.”

“Mh-mh.” His smug half smile came back, but he looks always trying to hide it.

“What is that supposed to mean, Altin?” He plunges forward and leans on his hands resting on the floor, looking straight at the camera, close enough for me to see the detail on the soft peck of chest hair gleaming under the artificial light, his sun kissed skin taunting me, calling for me, adorned with little dark red love bites on his collarbone, his lips pumped and bright red. I push my hand under the covers as if I were to just cover it, trying not to be too obvious about it pressing hard on my dick to make the throbbing sensation, the fire on my loins, stop. Even then, I’m sure he can see it in my eyes.

“If I were to hold you,” he pauses and his voice becomes an exasperatingly sweet breath, “If I were to whisper in your ear, would you stop me?” The hand that tried to stop me is doing anything but that, caressing gently at the tip of my cock, making me take way too many deep breaths in order to avoid my voice from shaking.

“ _You_ would.” It sounded like a quivering plea. As if I was asking him to correct me. Asking him to tell me everything he’d say, every little thing he’d do. 

He hesitates. I can’t hold the movement of my hand much longer, going up and down my shaft slowly, my eyes glued to the vision that is his chest right in front of me, the thirst in his eyes, his mouth open enough for his tongue to wander around his lips in wanting, almost inviting me to… 

“Don’t stop me.” There’s a degree of begging into that phrase and he notices it. 

He likes it.

He sits back down, still supporting his weight onto the floor with his left hand, while the right starts wandering slowly, painfully slow up his tight. He doesn't even reach his crotch before I stop him. “Put on some light. I can’t see you.” He takes his phone from somewhere besides the laptop and sets it under the coffee table, flashlight on and pointing at him. Now I can notice the perfect underline of his bulge pulsating under his pants. 

The constant voice on the back of my mind starts again: I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t… 

  
  


It must be over one in the morning when he comes back from the bathroom; he refused to end the call and now slouches on his spot on the floor, one hand resting on his knee, looking at me through a half lidded gaze and a shy smile. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” There it is. The regret. The sting on the back of my mind, the hesitation, all there. 

“You are way too far off, Beka: I’ll take what I can get-”

“That’s not reassuring. You’re…” He looks away; there’s something he’s not saying, something big. But the last time I pushed him into talking he ended up under the snowfall for hours until I decided to talk again. I don’t want a fight again, not now, not through a fucking webcam. 

“I want you. And I can’t have you right now, not really. So I’ll take this, every text or anything you're willing to concede me, and I’ll be happy with it.” Even I get surprised at my calm demeanor right now, I’m trying way too hard not to snap at him. “I had to sleep alone last night after a week of… You.” I want to say something else, to make him understand me, but I can’t find the words. I just… Reach out to the bear plushie and hold it to my chest. 

His expression changes. He smiles, relaxes.

“I miss you too, Yura.” 

Good enough, I guess. This is what I can get and I’ll hold on to it. I notice the grin on my face only when I finish putting my laptop away. 

 

This is what we are now, huh? Not titles. Just…. Us.

This is not so bad.


End file.
